


Hesitation Marks

by ThereminVox



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: F/M, Navajo Mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-08 01:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15919818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: Wherein a wolfish spirit of inquiry spells an awkward coming-of-age narrative.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a forewarning I guess but there won’t be any dub/noncon whatsoever in this tale. The small inkling at the end of this chapter doesn’t convey anything nor does it entail any future graphic depictions of that nature. More or less, it just ties into varying notes of symbolism.

 

 

 

 

There were four of them.

A quartet of bastardized children, abandoned at creation and given to scour by only the fetal means of their protean clay. But, these were no ordinary children. Rather, well-basted dolls, lined along the surface of an ever sanitized salver. And these were no average dolls, as it would seem.

 

Hope County.

This diminutive town was as any other, save for one rogue resident. Or rather, habitual visitor.

 

Dibé Tsosie was this pellucid wraith’s name. Yet, this impermanent stain was little more than an inked claim towards the common purpose of impersonal institutions. To normal spectators, eyes that travel oft through perennial tunnels, heedless to a world beyond those spheric walls, they would only witness these forsaken anthropomorphic cloths as defective puppets in an artificer’s shoddy waste bin. A craftsman whose imperfect inventions have rendered him to unsound voices that go bump in the night, succumbing his once sanguine sagacity to sooted grey matter.

 

She was as a canker in a legion of fig seeds. While still reflexively alarming to some, the Spread Eagle had gone eerily silent upon the arrival of her bloodied, battered form stumbling through the entrance. Perhaps, she could have eagerly continued to accept their cosmetic observance. The daily assertion of expletives and complaints imprecating “those damn Peggies”. As if it were any other night, this barely 5 foot composition of feminine leaning, slides against the warm, imprinted seating, assuming the lingering presence of a previous pilgrim. Someone who has made their hesitating mark on a place that bears a blind eye and deaf ear to their fleeting brand of animation.

 

“One club soda, please.”

 

The bartender, a generic blonde, blue-eyed template, is practiced in performance, stooping down briefly to provoke the yielding suction of a fridge door, procuring the sober beverage of choice. Her features were not of their usual accommodating nature, synchronizing with the small number of attendees of whom found this elfin stranger’s attendance far more intriguing than that of the coquettish singer swaying at the stage. Faces of pity and consternation, unyielding only until the wounded in question would cede to pronounce her fatal injury.

 

Indeed, her sweater-clad chest was painted a dark crimson, dried remnants beginning to make the cotton uncomfortably sticky along the unclothed breast, rivulets of the fresh substance dripping casually down the calmly heaving torso to abscond the hem and merge into a cascade leaking unceremoniously to the floorboards. The space surrounding the stool had become smeared by maroon, circling the legs as a halo made messily by a child’s wayward hand. Her upper thighs were thoroughly drenched, blood seeping into the denim crotch of which was equally exposed with no protective layering to unveil.

 

A few audible breaths could be heard as soon as the music ceased, heavy respirations growing impatient from holding tongue. Only one mouth opened to sup the limpid liquid of their chosen poison, grimy nails contrasting against the clear bottle, fingers taut in grip, veins prominent and complementing of various scrapes and bruises. A single medium-sized gash on the palm was unmistakable in its blurring pink impression through rushing swirls of carbonation. A quivering Adam’s apple bobbed against her delicate, dappled throat, stretched and bared in parched euphoria to indulge the descent of sustenance in one avid ritual of consumption.

 

A gentle clunk of glass to wood signalled her cessation, burping release through chafed lips.

Jaundiced eyes transition from the countertop to transfix upon her captivated audience. Cosmetic scrutiny was a must in this homogeneous environment. Her swarthy complexion was surely of stark variance to these pallid faces, made less warm even by the dim, amber lighting. A sole lively essence, ironically submerged within a parted sea of indisposition.

 

“Are you…. alright miss? Pardon my discourtesy but me and all these concerned folks can’t help but notice someone trailing blood through the place like they’ve just come from combat zone.”

 

Her gaze trains to the lone jukebox next to a now inanimate stage, nearly begging for a random song to tune in and abate these intolerable requests for common courtesy. As if no one was allowed to casually enter an establishment, decapitated, severely mangled beyond repair, anything _but_ in fine fettle, without perpetually wandering glances of unease and aiding compulsion. As if these occurrences simply harbored no room for familiarity.

 

“Yes, I’m fine. ...Thanks for the drink.”

 

She offers a small smile, slipping down from the seat, stretching out her muscles and shifting to smudge footprints into the burgundy margins before reaching a hand into a pocket to retrieve a five dollar bill, promptly setting the crumpled currency on the counter before the single woman’s addled form.

 

“Keep the change.”

 

No further exchanges of acknowledgment were spared and she limps normally to take her leave, retracing the bloody trail she’s left, vehemently ignoring those quaking shivers racking her body in warning, wanting nothing more than for her to submit before the threshold, writhing in inexorable pain, teeth gnashing, limbs contorting, pulse pounding against flesh in an anxious attempt to escape and emerge into a creature beyond recognition.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Autumn Equinox was briskly approaching.

 

Behind a blanket of rapidly passing clouds, the moon was sheepish to reveal its ominous expression.

  
  


* * *

 

 

 

She’s barely made it a few feet outside, stepping off the porch and into deserted street, before a figure swiftly blurs into vision. Her already weakening stance surrenders to stagger back, nearly tripping against the lignified curb yet being perched instead by firm arms breaking the graceless fall.

 

“My God…”, the low voice whispers to no one in particular.

 

“I’m not even sure where to begin.”

 

She’s still quiet as the nameless man secures her in his embrace. Rather, it was _her_ who scrambled blindly against him, grasping for purchase as they stood together, trying vainly to savor his fleeting warmth in that now chilling air. He allows her cheek to press snugly against his chest as a touch starved animal, every inch of her form melding along his, nails digging earnestly into his upper arms, before speaking again.

 

“Why didn’t those nice people offer any help?” Now, his tone has become vigorous, _demanding_ answers.

 

“Come. We’re going back inside.”

 

“N-no… I-.... I don’t-“ Labored breaths cut her speech short, chest visibly heaving as her ‘savior’ gently yet still urgently begins to move one arm around her shoulder, his other occupied by an unidentified book beneath, hand holding fast to her still clutching forearm as they began to move and trek once more along that now stale track.

 

“If tonight’s sermon didn’t register, we’ll just have to revisit with divine intervention.”

 

“I don’t need help!”

 

It’s this maniacal, panting assertion that has her repelling from his insufferably imploring touch, pushing roughly against him and backing away slowly with a transpiring look of feral intent cast across her features.

 

The man furrows his brow against a pair of spectacles, a look of sheer lament and disquiet shrouding his already swart skin tone. Quietly, he shifts to uncover the book, which Dibé quickly identifies as any standard King James Version of the Old and New Testament and, as if cued by this simple motion, by the surging screams of her sudden distress, a crowd begins to disperse from either door of the bar, from squared entries of every building in town, paving hesitation marks along the gravel as they approach this scene of disturbance.

 

Dibé was positive all they could perceive her as in that haunting moment was an untamed beast loosed freely in the midnight hour. Her teeth were bared slightly in a conflicting illustration of anguish and savage impulse, clothes tattered from head to toe, feet marred and bare to the harsh concrete, making their way by defensive, backwards wobble into the middle of desolate and equally frayed pavement. Spurts of adrenaline was steadily restoring what little of her strength remained, standing erect and helpless to afflicting nerves, waiting patiently for this unknown sense of dread to subside.

 _Hoping_ , for lack of better word.

Like an innocent lamb, wrongly punished and thus fated only to adorn the garment of a wolf’s hide.

 

“I tried asking what was wrong, Jerome… but she said she was fine. Filled the tab and went about her way. You know I’m not one to prod at anyone who denies help even if they need it. Especially if it’s some foreign face that just happens to come outta the woodwork. We got enough problems to contend with.”

 

“Mary, I’ve told you time and again that the Lord does not turn a blind eye to any of his children, and neither should we.”

 

“By all means, feel free to handle that yourself, but I got a shop to close down and a bed calling my name. Which reminds me, you heard about Whitehorse and his team finally giving us relief and planning to arrest that bastard tomorrow? Hell, I’d go down to the jail now and celebrate but I think all the satisfaction I’ll need is finally reclaiming our county.”

 

There was a brief moment of respite in which the man closes his eyes, hands now fixing the Bible between horizontal grasp, palms flattened on either side and outstretched. Releasing a clearly displeased, if not drawn out, sigh, he responds in kind.

 

“Alright, Mary. Just know that God is always watching and while he’s not pleased with your actions, his forgiveness is unrivaled.”

 

All this was said per civil custom when he assumes a more relaxed disposition, Bible returned underarm, posture poised whilst turning to address his informal congregation face to face.

 

“Okay, everyone”, he concludes with a resounding clap. “Show’s over. Get some shut-eye. Lord knows we’re gonna have trouble tomorrow if the Sheriff is making good on his promise. As our _lovely_ Mary has announced-“ a furtive glance was cast towards the woman in question, “this young lady is none of your concern.”

 

If there were any complaints, none were voiced to aid the stirring air. A storm was coming. Dibé could feel it in the stray droplet tickling her forehead, sending a light gasp and making aware of her presently composed temperament. For a moment’s grace her tired eyes scan the retreating figures one last time, wondering _why_ she was compelled to stay put. Pondering upon _how_ she had even got here, shooting a curious peek to the skies in artless questioning. Her thoughts had been abruptly snuffed, wandering gaze fixed upon the sole figure approaching.

 

“Stay away from me.” It was no longer _contemplating_ her reason for being here that spurred her to act but now desiring to abscond wherever _here_ was.

 

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.

I just want to talk.”

 

 _It’s_ **_you_ ** _who should be afraid…._

 _Afraid of_ **_me_ ** _._

 

The thought was unwitting. A distant echo in mind, seeking to sound caution even to herself.

 

“My Church is just over there”, his unbearably polite finger gestures in the direction leading to a lit spire just a few structures away from the bar. A vague silhouette of something her sights couldn’t manifest at this length. “Now, I don’t know what your stance is on religion but I can assure you I’ll spare any pestering with the breath of the Holy Spirit.”

 

His resulting chuckle did nothing to ease.

 

“However, I’m afraid I can’t overlook someone who looks nothing short of infirm.”

 

Dibé gulps hard, the once glutting fluid of quenching thirst being swiftly neutralized and substituted for a new, unusual taste. An indescribable famine affected her tongue that she couldn’t quite place in its burgeoning yet latent emergence. Awkward fixation on the now obtrusive line throbbing at his jugular has her tearing her eyes away, narrowing off instead to a sign in the distance saying

“Worms Sold Here”.

 

“I’m sorry… but I can’t.”

 

Turning on her heel, Dibé swiftly leaves the noble knight alone with spurned musings. And that, therein, rests the problem. He was good. _Too_ good. A man committed to his faith and the God he worships, confident in his convictions that God’s love was unconditional, even in this omnipresent glare of sin and subsequent misgivings.

 

Tender soles redden and vitiate further with her sedated pace, pebbles imprinting into the fleshy heels, microscopic shards of glass puzzling and setting into tiny grazes. Her stretching shadow started to ebb with each somber step and it was then, the numbing ache became nothing more than a minor nuisance as brisk sprint replaces this pedestrian stride, darting in impetuous haste down the jilted path devoid of moonlight’s reassuring embrace. Wind lapping at her face, stealing breath from blemished lungs, notified her of matted hair and mending wounds. Metallic scents filled her senses, mixing seamless with manure and petrol.

 

Thunder pealed as her jog stops her at a dirt road leading to the left. Just now, she was beginning to fully realize how isolated she was. Lights were few and far between, darkness reigning and negating even the transient flashes of headlights passing from occasional vehicles on those otherwise barren roads. Green hues, etched with white, scarcely flickered a few steps off to her right. A road sign, no doubt. She was already lost as is and figured it wouldn’t hurt to just do what she’s done to get to that town.

 

….Whatever that may have been.

 

Memory was foggy and she’d be lucky to just find food and shelter without any nagging inquiries added in the medley for behesting room and board. Although, she supposed it would be worth suffering through if she could receive it free of charge. The instant transition from grit to dirt brought about a restive awareness. Critters of all brands and ancestries thrived on this unpaved strip, parasites keen on securing a new host. This morbid thought has her quickly shifting to the grass, staying close to an approaching barbed fence. The small bedding of wheat wouldn’t do much for protection but it still served as a nice cushion against the harsh layering.

 

As if on cue, her skin felt on the verge of festering. In every nook and crevice, an overwhelming itch came about her, possessing her into a frenzy of scratching. It was a gradual buildup, urging blunt nails to claw scathing marks into now exposed flesh of forearms, pace slowing to a snail’s stride when the sleeves were pushed up impatiently, rosy streaks surfacing in visible form against the tawny tone, beads of red cropping an array of dots. When this insatiable rawing wasn’t enough, she mindlessly discards the offending fabric entirely, black sweater thrown behind, caring none at all for the indecency of her now bared torso.

 

After fruitless seconds of enacting the same abrading motions on her gory bosom, belly and lower back, the next to be shed was a sable pair of denim jeans. There was more pleasure than pain in her fervent ministrations, motivated by an absurd quest towards relief that was yet, if ever, to manifest. Knobby ankles rubbing, thighs seeking friction to no avail. It was an exceptionally perverted idea of erotica. To put it mildly.

 

Mottling disperses a comprehensive journey down the petite expanse of her body and, without a second thought, she’s grazing the entire left side against the fence, sawtooth speckles embossing into excoriated muscle of her hip and elbow. Crickets and cicadas crescendoed in harmonious song, inciting her to persist in this grisly exposition. She couldn’t stop if she wanted. Didn’t _wish_ to stop.

 

The sensations were too remedial. A topical tonic encouraging subsequent peeling of dermis anew into a fresh layer of thriving tissue. Crooning insects, God’s livid cries, and her contented sighs. A musical trio for the ages. All mirrored in brazen undress, proclaiming all they are. All they can be. All they yearn to be conceived as. If only every bud could treasure, in spite of blighting imperfections.

 

Every note, a lasting melody of honeyed samples.

 

That is, until a precipitous din arrived in anything other than the form of deluging rain. Fleet departure from the spikes has Dibé spotting a blinking pair of lights coming into view down the road in front. _Just another car_ is what she thinks initially. However, the thought was revoked immediately as she recognized the speedy difference in momentum. It was a pickup truck, driving undoubtedly well beyond normal speed limits.

 

...And apparently searing a scorching trail of rubber directly in her direction.

 

Survival instinct pushes her hamstrings into overdrive as the lights expand to a blinding white, running away just in time to not be roadkill. Wooden fence replaces thorned metal, acrobatic skills made evident in her hurried yet precise leap over and into a slough of mud, feet given only a fleeting touch of soothing respite, continuing on to what appeared to be a stable holding bales of hay. Once more, she leaps over steel fencing, desperately scrambling for breath and time, pressing her perspired stretch of back against the cool, rusty surface. Doors closing and shuffling movement fueled the tank of trepidation.

 

“It’s Peggie huntin’ season!”

One rough, Southern twang shouts this to the electrified air, practically begging to be smite by a vexed deity’s hand.

 

She did _not_ want to know what that entailed.

If anything, she looked like shit….

 _Smelled_ like shit.

And was sure even the wolves and cougars wouldn’t bother with her when her taste rankled as such.

 

Nevertheless, she shifts just so to peek around the barrier, fear ever growing as four strange bearded men approach in smug saunter. Frankly, they were all in dire need of a shower yesterday.

 

“Ya can’t hide from us, sweetheart! Woman such as yourself roamin’ around stark naked and don’t expect to be caught?!”

 

She holds her breath, head imprinting back into corroded iron, hands digging into muck, lacking any dignity to cover herself in vain if she’s set on course to be defiled and maimed. She’s essentially offered herself, being the comically sacrificial lamb she is.

 

And there, they appear.

Hungry, predatory eyes glittering with mischief in scarce slivers of silver radiance. Bodies dressed in peculiar garb bearing a symbol that incidentally resembled the Church of Scientology’s signature cult logo.

 

“Whoo! Looks like we got some _luxury_ swine on the menu tonight!”

 

“You even know what luxury means, peabrain?”

 

“ _Yes_ , I do. The Baptist, himself, told me.”

 

A third voice reverberates against the hay.

 

“Hey! The real question is… who’s takin’ turns spitroastin’ her?”

 

Gruff laughs grotesquely harmonize before the fourth and final voice finalized the pack.

 

“The Father would have our asses immolated during the next sermon if we do that.”

 

“Fuck The Father. If he’s so omniscient, how come he can’t see this.”

 

A swift boot to her stomach has her springing into action, rubber grooves pressing hard against pliant flesh, a wicked smile plastered above, inversely reflecting her listless frown, at the witness of dainty hands wrapping around his ankle.

 

“Should we give her some Bliss, just in case?”

 

“Nah. Doesn’t look like she’s resistin’ much.”

 

The man hums crudely before retracting his foot, but not without skimming a spectral touch across a hardened nipple, made so by the frigid night gale, all eight eyes scrutinizing her in evaluation.

 

“Damn… Even lookin’ like she’s just been beaten within an inch of her life and yet still fuckable. Or, ya know, as a gentleman would say...,”

 

The man leans forward this time, crouching low to eye level to finish with a rancid gust of breath fanning her face.

 

_“Exquisite.”_

 

Dibé’s mind is possibly the least occupied in faculty when one hand raises in reflex, sending an emphatic blow of palm to cheek. The palm print she’s left was begging to be licked and she does just that before his fury could evince, grabbing the collar of his sweater in dominance, ignoring the familiar click of guns loading and pointed at her head, focused solely on planting a long, controlled stripe up the man’s scraggly hairs and grungy cheekbone.

 

His heartbeat betrayed him, throbbing furiously against her tongue in flustered display, rosy flush plain in exhibition. The three remaining goons didn’t hesitate to lower their weapons, out of confusion or dormant arousal, she didn’t know. But, there was no time to dwell as she knew her impulsive instant of diversion had been successful. The man in question shuffles to stand in brief mania. Another took the ghost of his position, sheathing his pistol and grabbing her forcefully and up to press flush against him.

 

“Get the engine goin’! We’re leavin’.”

 

His hooded eyes were nonetheless vicious through beaded haze, steady stench of his following words bearing an unwelcome invitation of assured promise.

 

“ _Ohh_ ….

John’s gonna _loove_ you.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

There were four of them. 

 

But not the plaster saints scurrying like ants to moor their capture aboard an empty truck bed. One duo remained on guard while the other pair were off to retrieve ropes as restraints. Dibé was relaxed, sat as casually as one catching the final rays of day, legs swinging to and fro upon the platform door, voicing zero complaints. The two men felt more perturbed before her unyielding stare than she was to be of theirs. Perhaps, they were more disciplined than she gave them credit for as despite this display of vacillating remission, they did not oblige her more fatalistic expectations. That is to say, a cliché rendition of the backwoods gang rape performance. 

 

_ At least cop a feel to make the tension believable.  _

 

Or maybe, they were actually ruffled at the edges at her alarmingly passive demeanor. It wasn’t everyday they witnessed anything other than an animal leisurely strolling around in the open, bare as the day they were born. They also wouldn’t expect them to be littered in abrasions, streaks of life’s essence threatening expiry along downy skin, desiccated and in urgent need of a thorough cleansing. The tired “slain lamb” trope couldn’t be more exhausted at this point. It seemed as if the Man Upstairs was delaying inevitable acid rain to spare these defenseless waifs from horrid metamorphosis. 

 

“Must be possessed”, the sheep on the right convinces himself with dismissive huff and shake of the head.

 

“It’s a win for all three of those bastards, regardless”, the other sheep bleats. “John’s got a new plaything. Joseph’s creamin’ his chastity belt with exorcism as foreplay. Jacob can test her out as a human Judge. Faith… I don’t know. Just as hot, but I’ll be damned if she doesn’t seem more angelic in comparison to this succubus.”

 

“You two done flirtin’ with the meat?” 

One half of a shepherd returns with frayed hawsers slung over both shoulders. The second remaining half was just a smudge in her peripherals, speaking inaudibly on some device not of standard phone depiction.  The antenna suggested a radio or walkie talkie.

 

“Don’t see any harm. She’s already lookin’ pretty damn spoiled.”

 

“Never thought John was much for sharin’”, the  herdsman doesn’t wait for a response, shielding the two sheep from view while quickly making work to stop her leg’s swaying motions, “The smug asshole knows he’s lucky. If I don’t get somethin’ good from givin’ him  _ this _ prize, consider me a Resistance ally.”

 

Ankles were bound, bone chafing, appearing as a finless mermaid in stark tarn. Breasts and stomach were given to perch against filth-ridden grooves, chin puzzling into one mini trench, drowsy eyes fixed upon her reflection in the back window. Arms fiercely overlap hers at the wrists, binding a torrid touch to exceedingly paralyzed nerves. 

 

Further, she was pushed, friction setting her to the side and curling into the fetal position. And finally, the door was slammed shut, voices coming and fading from either side. 

 

“Somethin’s not right with her… what if this ain’t the right decision?”

 

“What’s the worst she can do? Leave a bite mark?”

 

“We should just keep an eye on her, is all I’m sayin’. You don’t think this is even remotely creepy? What’s John gonna think havin’ some random nude girl thrust on his doorstep, lookin’ like some bear’s mauled meal?”

 

“Already called him. Mind you, I got a minor scoldin’ for interruptin’ his beauty rest but he’s intrigued, to say the least.”

 

At this allusive whisper of omen, slumber beckons her weary mind to retire, fading gingerly from consciousness as an engine springs to life, racing into Delphic unknowns.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Dibé awakens, breathing impossibly heavy, heart pounding, hunched on all fours in a fetid puddle of fresh blood, she is not afraid. She does not acknowledge nor recognize the mutilated bodies surrounding, seven in total. Her pupils are dilated in unidentified emotion, flesh trembling in frigid air of the witching hour, mouth coated and dripping with copper taste, tattered ropes resting limply around flexing toes and fingers. Each swallow was as a tarnished blade, rests of a yet unquenched thirst, raising her head slowly, further confused by the unfocused sight of stiff figures.

 

Sounds were equally indiscernible, scarcely hearing clearly as her waning strength leaves her to wobble a few centimetres back and forth before toppling to stony ground, laying sprawled and lax, head lolling along the liquid cardinal, reflection glimpsing bristling reprieve at the jarring image of black sclera receding. 

 

“Lower your weapons.”

 

“John, she’s dangerous! Look what she did to our men!”

 

“Lower your  _ goddamn _ weapons! 

_ I won’t say it again _ .”

 

Reluctantly, this glazed army of formless shapes lower fuzzy guns, retreating into fusing array of dimming lights. A single shadow emerged at the forefront, an expanding black against subdued silvers of now glaring moonlight.

 

“My, my…

What a lovely creature you are.”

 

This new stranger’s voice was clearer now in its close proximity but his features were still a blear, even whilst squatting down, apparently unfazed by the ghastly spectacle. The distinct scent of tobacco smoke heightened her senses, almost provoking her vision to return in one brightened burst. As he uttered the appreciative statement, the feeling of calloused skin brushing against her cheek nearly has her yelping. She was sensitive in every way possible and an icy layer of splattered moisture blankets her none against the frostbitten air. All she could offer in response to this cursory caress was a closing of her lids and deep breath inhaled through the nose in submission. She was far too expended to resist. Eternal rest is all her mind was focused on and it seemed the mystery shape was more than eager to please.

 

She had almost been  _ too  _ receptive to the comforting warmth awaiting. Strong arms were secured under her thighs as they wrap around lean hips. Their torsos were clutching one other and the striking mold of silk against her damp flesh left her sighing softly into his shoulder, restlessly shifting her head in a comfortable position. The man was cradling her with novel benevolence, lips ghosting against the shell of one ear. 

 

“Shh, shh…”, he coos. “Everything will be  _ just _ fine, my dear. Tomorrow, the Sun will rise again.”

 

There was a hidden roguery to his cajoling tone, wicked smile surfacing at the feel of her face snuggling closer to his neck, grip tightening just so around his back as they cross the threshold into a place he was sure she’d soon be calling home. 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She awakes again, this time fully cognizant and well-rested. Her last memory of home was a dull phantom, but this foreign, albeit cozy, environment was nowhere near what she remembered. A skylight directly above instantly alerted her to a sense of wrongness.

 

_ How long had I slept? _

 

It wasn’t nighttime but the sun appeared about an hour close to setting, if the faint yellow-orange and muted sky blue was anything to go by. 

 

Unfortunately, she couldn’t allow herself to relish this abiding serenity, swiftly ridding a fur blanket from embrace, audibly groaning as her feet planted to an even furrier expanse, at the fact that she was still stark bare. Not so much annoyed at the lack of clothing but rather the presence of reddish-brown crust caking her in piebald pattern. The spacious stretch of interior design tells her this isn’t a bedroom. A leather couch was stood behind her perusing form, the prior night’s makeshift bedding, a bookshelf erected with mounted deer head above, forming the backdrop. To her left, there stood a taxidermied wolf, complemented by the bear rug beneath her feet. 

 

Aside from clearly bearing affluent background, she decided whoever the owner was, expressed a keen interest in hunting and taxidermy. A dining table was situated before her, various tools assorted. A glance above illustrates an attracting display of chandelier, custom crafted in formation by antlers and lit by what appeared to be red Christmas lights. An unlit hearth was centered in the middle and upon seeing a shelf mounted on one side, spotting a small analog clock, Dibé takes quick stride to retrieve the time. The hands were set half past 5 but in the late afternoon opposed to morning. Moving around to scan the other side, she was inquisitive and craving for exploration, storing away a mental image of a curious scales of justice model, perched on the opposite shelf. 

 

Turning to a coffee table, a ziploc bag catches her eye, titled “oregano”. It was filled with some leafy green matter but she was smart enough to know it was definitely not oregano. She almost had half a mind to stash away the findings for herself, unconsciously opening her mouth as wide as possible, reaching in slow motion for the bag in some mock attempt at smuggling drugs. 

 

“Pray tell, what is that mouth hankering for now?”

 

She freezes, quickly standing at attention, mouth pressing firmly at the seams. The voice was smooth and velvety, a sound she’d likely never tire if it opted to continue on an endless course. Anxious to tear her gaze away from the open entrance, confronting the source of creaking doors to her side, she figured it was probably a grave mistake, fully taking in the man’s sauntering appearance.

 

_ Fuck. He’s attractive.  _

 

Feeling naked under someone’s intense stare had taken on a whole new meaning as she’s conveniently reminded of her nude disposition, doing nothing to assume cover except conveying through fidgety movement of inherent discomfort. 

 

“Oh, don’t you dare get shy on me now. Not after that  _ fascinating _ exhibition you’ve blessed us with the other night.”

 

His attire was a pair of denim jeans, long-sleeved blue button-down of twin textures, rolled up to the elbows and proudly showing of a number of tattoos, complemented by fitted vest. The shirt was unbuttoned two fastens down and she couldn’t ignore the scarification etched across his chest. Although, the main thing that interested her was why he was still dressed as such at this late in the day. Unless his work entailed the night shift. With that face, it could be a number of operations. Frankly, the man was gorgeous. And just her type, incidentally. She thought it best to keep that confession private.

 

He grants a magnified view of this winsome face, sliding in front of her to take a seat on said coffee table, tilting his head up in amusement, smirking knowingly as a hand finds purchase on the bag, picking it up, weighing it a bit, before ultimately swaying it in front of her like a dog treat. 

 

“Usually, someone asks the dealer for a fair price before risking life and limb to abscond with the goods.”

 

“I…”

 

She couldn’t help being flustered but there was no way she’d satisfy his smug leaning so she asserts her ground instead, folding arms against her chest and jutting her chin out. 

 

“I’d like to know why I wasn’t placed in a guest bedroom.”

 

“The only bedroom in this house is my own and I wasn’t letting you dirty my sheets”, he casually dismisses. “And before you ask about baths, you were clearly unconscious and I didn’t want to disturb your much needed sleep.”

 

“That’s… very kind of you?”

 

She was at a loss for words, to put it lightly. Truth be told, she didn’t really know what to say. Didn’t want to accuse him of anything or remain silent in anxious admission. After all, a bath was all the incentive needed for her to just go with the motions and accept his generous hand. In spite of what underlying motives may manifest. 

 

“I take it that means you enjoyed the view”, she coughs lightly before adding in awkward haste, “I mean..., you’re  _ still _ enjoying it?” Nervous chuckling.

 

He’s on her within a second, sprouting up, leaving the bag unattended, making her stagger backwards as he gets intimately close, a breath away from pressing flush against her. He towered over her a good 10 or 11 inches and his pine musk was rousing. 

 

“Oh  _ yes _ . Indeed, I did. I’d enjoy it even more if you were on the clean side.”

 

She could’ve easily purred at this suggestion. 

 

“My pores will be very happy to be soaked at this given moment. But before you direct me to some luxurious bathroom, I’m just curious about one thing.”

 

She sidesteps to escape his spirited admiration. 

 

“Why are you being so charitable towards some random stranger?”

 

He laughs a little.

 

_ “ _ All things considered, it was  _ you  _ having been brought to my doorstep as a… gift. Shall we say. That is, until you went berserk and nearly killed half of my guards in ravenous frenzy. I’m still trying to process that horror show myself, if it’s any consolation.”

 

“I honestly have no idea or recollection of what happened. Refresh my memory.”

 

“That’s for  _ you _ to tell  _ me _ , dear. Until last night, I wasn’t exactly prepared to witness bloodshed in any form other than by normal  _ human  _ faculty. I’m still rather in disbelief about what I’ve seen, but if that all black hue consuming the entire shape of your eyes was any indication, whatever possessed you was anything  _ but  _ human.”

 

She had to suppress an absurd laugh at the comical nature of that implication. 

 

“Wait, wait…. All black hue? Anything but human? ….I don’t understand.”

 

The man begins to maneuver around, leaving her wooden posture alone, his short trek leading him to the couch she had slept, reaching down to take the strewn blanket in grasp to fold back up for storage. With innocent gesture, she follows him as he finishes creasing one fold. 

 

“We’re on the same page, then.” Another fold. 

“I’ll be glad to discuss it further with you but time is of the essence and I’m sure that hot shower is calling your name.”

 

With the heated strokes of her tethered ambition, she obliges this chosen behest, watching as he tucks the blanket away in hugging embrace, stalking off to a set of double doors, presumably from whence he came, practically beckoning her to retrace his steps. 

 

She questions no further until they’ve surpassed rooms of varying tones, ascending a spiraling staircase and ultimately arriving to one sterilized space in particular.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_ Finally _ , Dibé sighs in content. 

 

Her brazen exposure was now welcome in this sterile environment, bare feet pacing around cool tile in reverence, savoring the laundered smells with an almost primal consumption of air. Her still unnamed escort had left her in solitude after supplying a plush towel and some especially rich toiletries. She had joked a bit about him joining her but his tone had suddenly taken an odd transition, him only offering a tepid smile in response before allowing her intermission within those capacious four walls. 

 

The shower area wasn’t so fancy that she was rendered clueless to certain advanced commands but certainly still costly enough to warrant extra cautious handling. With a carob colored bar of soap clasped in one eager hand, she steps past the glass barrier, closing behind and setting the jet to its highest setting, unashamed at the inevitable expression of delight as streams of steady heat hammered relentlessly in somehow gentle spates against her skin. It was enough to steal her breath away, head fully submerged under, with knotted hair loosening and cascading over quivering shoulders. Fingers found a massaging rhythm along the stinging scalp, soap, stale blood, and pigmentation coalescing down the drain into one swirling gyre of distillation. Two thorough scrubbing successions along the body is all she needs. 

 

It was erotic innocence, if such a thing was to exist. She wasn’t well-versed with her body on sexual terms, so the modest gliding of the soap circling a slow path around each breast, hesitant fingers pinching and pulling at the areola in three speedy movements, could only be perceived as reflexive, if not wholly ineffective, at this point. It seemed her nerves had yet to agree with her in those telling areas of hedonism, those same fingers descending a frustrating trail to bushy pubic hair, middle finger briefly slipping through, rubbing its inexperienced padding against the deadened nub for five rough beats before withdrawing and emitting a defeated sigh.

 

A few more greedy moments were spent basking under rejuvenating torrents, succumbing to her normal train of tangential thought. Strangely enough, the voracious, indescribable hunger that possessed her in the past 24 hours was entirely  absent now. Pondering over the cause and effect of amnesiac actions and events would have proved unavailing. Nevertheless, this Kafkaesque sequence of incidents essentially fed her insatiate yearning for knowledge, especially so concerning surrealist avenues. 

 

Her satisfied form had just walked out, towel offering some semblance of strict dress code as she was now sat on the edge of ceramic finish, pleasantly lost in reverie until her host of the evening greeted with a courteous peek through the door before opening completely. His arrangement underwent slight alteration, a trench coat now layering the aforementioned outfit, his hair neatly slicked back with blue shades resting atop. Draped over one raised forearm rested an article of clothing. Some women’s sleepwear, it seemed. 

 

His expression is neutral as he approaches to sit opposite her the tub. She opts to spare a few seconds before giving him her undivided attention, him serving similar sentiment in his hesitating mark to speak. 

 

“I have a sermon to attend, tonight. Won’t be until much later when I return.”

 

“Didn’t peg you as the religious type.”

 

“My brother is a pastor, in fact. Leads his own congregation. Our flock is ever growing with new recruits. Naturally, I play an important role in this recruitment. Let’s just say, I  _ absolve  _ people from a life of sin.”

 

“So you’re a baptist?”

 

His responding smile was giddy.

 

“Yes, precisely.  _ The  _ Baptist. For honorific adherence. Although, candidly speaking, I’d prefer my less popular moniker of ‘The Inquisitor’.”

 

“Ah, of course.”

 

Another moment of silence ensued before he stands to take his leave, uttering a few closing remarks.

 

“You’re free to tag along, if you like. I’m sure Joseph would be  _ very  _ interested in meeting you.” 

 

“Because there’s something patently special about this strange girl who appears as a cryptid before his brother in the middle of night. He’ll be ecstatic to perform some exorcism on me, if anything.”

 

The satin fabric was now laid gently over her lap, patted over as if she were a child and he was the parent reinforcing object permanence. It was a slinky black night slip, hem stopping maybe 3 inches above the knees. Simple yet sexy, fairly fitting of the alluring, moneyed man.

 

“You seem like an inquisitive girl. The bedroom will find you soon enough. I trust you won’t snoop beyond reason.”

 

A funny feeling overcame her as he started to cross the threshold leading outside the restroom, not stopping herself from sprinting towards him and grabbing at the back of his coat.

 

“The day’s almost spent and I haven’t even gotten your name.”

 

A dazzling grin adorns his lower face, all teeth and effortless charm as he wasted no time turning back around and taking her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips and planting a chaste kiss on the still discolored flesh. 

 

“Just John.” 

 

There was no mere “just” judging by the mischievous glint in his sapphire iris.

 

“For now.”

 

And just like that, he’s gone. Treading heavily down the stairs and entrusting her to solitary company. 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

 

 _Excruciating_ is the word that tacks as a tumored inflammation in the thrumming ridges of Dibé’s frenetic mind. Longing for abnormal tastes was absent yet, in its place, erected an amorphous agony. Shooting twinges in the lower abdomen halted her jubilant prancing through the kitchen, keeling over before a heated stove and yanking her hand away from the surface, despite no registering pain. Cramps flayed in rapid succession just above her groin and some fluid was accumulating and spreading from the site in question, a slick wetness trailing down the inner thighs and peering from under the lace in vivid streaks of carmine.

 

Still pressing her palms against her stomach, clenching the muscles in an attempt to quell the intensity, she doesn’t have to deliberate much, even while slumping down to sit on the ground, leaning back against the oven door.

 

_Great, my fucking period._

 

Water was left to boil under a microwave’s nightlight as she springs up to return to the restroom. Her form in the mirror was jarring in its sullied composition. Various blemishes were scattered about from below the neck. Her hair was still wavy from moist contact yet unkempt in a manageable way. Dark circles presented an oddly attractive image beneath doe eyes. Otherwise there were but a few fading scars from God knows how or where. She doesn’t know why she bothers searching, knowing well that no tampons or pads would surface. Not to mention her caretaker had failed to bestow any contact information so calling or texting was null and void.

 

Each swelling breath of awareness was an ever shedding layer, leaving her impossibly more scarce, with nothing left in personal possession. No phone, clothes, or concrete memory. Literally, just the skin on her back was all to remain. Oddly enough, a fragmented reel was her only souvenir of purchase, depicting vague image of small hands tinkering with rag dolls of indistinct assortment. Ragged stitchings adorned their person and the most memorable inkling of detail was the acupunctured textiles, crowding up as pinned needles around the heart. It was almost disorienting in its foreboding rendition, evocative enough to summon sentiments of clarity, if only not in such baleful admittance.

 

Finally turning away from her vacant reflection, not dwelling on trying to piece together this cryptic import, she makes her way to gather a handful of toilet paper, folding to a suitable substitute before setting off in search of the landlord’s singular master quarters.

 

No less was to be expected when Dibé found herself only marginally floored upon entry of a set of ornate French doors. Another double set was met directly ahead, moonlight casting in slivers through the frosted windows, which she assumed led outside to a balcony. The room, itself, was fairly big due specifically to a wardrobe placing and personal restroom installation. Aside from these extensions, it appeared as any ordinary bedroom. Homey in a way that suggested countryside homage with cabin-like interior design. Didn’t seem like the money was spent exclusively on designer outlets or gratuitous expansion/extravagance.

 

Two dressers on the right hand side were met by her once more eager gaze, all inch of top expanse cluttered neatly with varying items. A stack of three books, resembling the same variety strewn around in the living area, settled in the middle divide. A tray of tools was set off to the side. Interestingly, what looked to be a journal set the centerpiece of surrounding model airplanes, but before she could focus her appreciation on this apparent display of passion, a number of photo frames sitting on the aforementioned dresser urged her attention.

 

She had expected to see a certain blue-eyed, brunette man, but two unknown faces engaged the forefront on opposite sides. They both were taller by a few good inches. In every group photo, he was situated between them. Three frames, in particular, casted single portraits, one of which depicted a young man dressed in military uniform with an 82nd Airborne patch on the upper right arm denoting rank and designation. She knew this couldn’t have been the ‘John’ of earlier meeting due to the man’s change in features, bearing the same, if not more, intense shade of blue eyes but instead of a mousy brown, the head was met instead by strands of light auburn.

 

Another portrait depicted yet another young boy, appearing more similar now in relation, with the same brunette and blue-eyed combination, however, the features were yet again different with the boy having longer, messier hair and wearing prescription glasses. Her heart swelled just a bit at the final portrait. John looked to be no more than five years young in this take. A vibrant child with an infectious smile towards the camera, eyes and posture holding nothing but warmth in its reflection. Dibé found herself unconsciously brushing fingers against the glass, lips inching into a smile of their own, instantly slipping into a downward spiral of wanting to know more about this enchanting Samaritan. Perhaps, it wasn’t the most fitting term of description, given the still mutually reticent setting, but redirecting her attention to the small plane collection was just an equally as small, yet telling leap into an inescapable pit she’s begun to dig.

 

A perfectly aligned trio of miniatures hemmed at the frontlines. First, on the far left, a DC-3 Dakota Aircraft c. 1936. Glancing right, a second and central piece claimed the partially barren plate of a conceptual blueprint, not yet approved in design. The third and final piece was one she had recognized through numerous excursions through woolgathering; a Caravelle 1950s Finnair Model, courtesy of Finnish airlines. Amusingly, however, the trademark logo of propriety was clearly altered to assume a new title.

 

_Sinner._

 

Granted the similarities were high in how close the wording and type font matched, she thought it was clever execution, despite having little clue what ‘Sinner’ indicated in this context.

 

Being an autodidact aided a fair bit in her escape from oppressive family life, yet only did so much to simulate the otherwise remaining sheltered world she was urged to be encapsulated. Thus, gaining as much knowledge as possible, staying about her wits and receptive to any and all cultures and general disparities had led to a great surge in emotional development at the budding sacrifice of social and physical. So, this plane, especially, was just one mark of familiarity, even in its still distant remembrance.

 

Nothing more did she want then to travel across the globe with no worries and she couldn’t think to restrain herself from reaching out and claiming tangible recognition for what was sure to be restricted until a long, strident din has her curtly recoiling and stumbling back onto queen-sized bedding. The unknown and precipitous sound was so loud in delivery, all she could do was curl up and shield her ears, pressing her thighs tightly together at the still unpleasant feel of dampness between. As if Mother Nature was just further asserting her cruel call.

 

“I see you’ve met Sybil!”

 

The racket had yet to cease but that muted voice was all needed to eject off the bed and away from whatever it came from. Pale rays shone only along the floorboards near the balcony door. Anywhere _other_ than the bedroom entrance and unfortunately so from where she stood now, directly next to the source of distress. Squeezing her eyes shut and pressing back against one side of squared windows, she decides to just wait.

 

A heavy pair of footsteps tries to rival in frequency and she opens to peek, thinking maybe John had made an early reappearance, but the change in outfit just has her silently recoiling further, thinking perhaps this is some unspoken punishment for trespassing. She doesn’t see the following gestures of whoever approaches, raising their hands in a way to suggest they were harmless.

 

A few wisps of wind move past and subconsciously she shifts to slide along the wood and glass, looking for the right moment to make a break and flee.

 

“Alright, _alright_. Calm down, girl. It’s just me.”

 

Aside from the crisp conveyance now present in a masculine voice, Dibé could finally hear her own thoughts again, if not a tad worried about the potential resulting brand of tinnitus.

 

In a matter of moments, those steps were making fast to trek across the room and Dibé was immediately cowering to the ground once again, surprising even herself with the little hiss/growl combo she’s emitted while appearing as a vampire caught in the shine of its bane as ivory white lights painted the atmosphere, sending violet spots through her vision. When a sense of stable adjustment befell, she was not prepared for the greeting sight.

 

“You must be one of those people who ‘thrive in darkness’ or some other gothic, emo musings. Never seen someone who casually maneuvers through the dark like what you’ve done.”

 

A young man, presumably around her age, bore a similar skin tone to hers, if not a shade darker, fairly tall and slim, with straight, long brown hair tied into a ponytail. His features were noticeably angular in the soft yet glaring light and he was donning the same garb as her four previous captors. What she saw next, perched warily along one shoulder, almost made her utter a laugh in nervous absurdity, but it’s cut short as the visitor continues to speak, moving away from the light switch to walk up and crouch down, with a hand out to offer help to her feet.

 

She takes it and stands with dizzy elation and the guy settles both hands on either shoulder with mock steadiness before granting a brief but whitened show of teeth.

 

“You don’t seem like one for formalities but just to establish some sense of familiarity…”

 

He drops both hands before reaching out the same single one from before in formal address.

 

“Name’s Elan.”

 

“How friendly are we talking?” Her wits obviously haven’t betrayed her, responding in kind with a firm clasp of her own.

 

He chuckled in a way that could only be discerned as relief.

 

“I could tell you were of Native descent. Not many people know what my name means beyond the standard Hebrew or American interpretation.”

 

“And… who are you?”

 

“I’m one of John’s Chosen. Now, I’m sure you don’t know what that means but let me be the first to say that I witnessed that bloodbath you performed firsthand and while I was definitely more amazed than frightened, I’m just hoping that I won’t be next on the menu..., if you catch my drift.”

 

Now, she was beginning to get annoyed.

 

“No… I don’t _catch_ your drift. What do you mean ‘next on the menu’? And who is _that_?”

 

She doesn’t point to the avian bystander more so than just offering an insistent look to his shoulder, where a Lutino Budgie was sat in placid formation. As if they _didn’t_ just almost succeed in gifting her with a ruptured eardrum.

 

“Why, this is Sybil. John’s pet parakeet. Just _one_ of his most prized possessions, mind you. She’s been trained more or less to be an alarm for possible intruders, _if_ they manage to sneak past us. Which, speaking of, I’ve been meaning to confront you on just that. Not that I had any specific plan in mind.”

 

He turns around and starts making his way through the door and down the hallway.

 

“If you don’t mind joining me in the kitchen, I can clear quite a few things up regarding yesterday’s events.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

She wants to wipe that smug look on his face. They were downstairs again in the now lit kitchen and Elan was staring down into the pot she had left stewing. What’s left of it, at least. She didn’t have to give a peek herself to know the water had completely evaporated from neglect and he just rubbed salt on the wound by casting a bemused glance.

 

“Looks like John may have a contender in the worst chef department.”

 

Dibé just rolls her eyes and goes to settle in one of the barstools at the counter. After hearing a clink, signifying he’s stashed away the dish, he’s not too far behind, sitting opposite her with that infernal bird as an eerie ornament. She’d never heard a screech that grating before, especially from a creature of that innocuous size. Those rotund ladies at the opera had some competition, if nothing else.

 

“So, I’m just gonna get right down to it.”

 

If it wasn’t the sharp transition of his tone that got her attention, it was definitely the grave urgency lingering beneath the tongue.

 

“Whether or not you’re here by chance is peripheral. Given my own upbringing, I’ll just have to conclude that you nearly devouring anything living within a 100-mile radius means that you’ve doubtlessly triggered something. A very _forbidding_ something. ...Which doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.”

 

Dibé’s expression is neutral, neither vacant nor expressly revealing.

 

“I realize it’s a lot to take in… but is it really any different from a Christian missionary spouting his teachings to a Pagan in the hopes of accepted conversion?”

 

Still neutral.

 

“Look, you can’t fool me. I can see those gears turning and I know how compelling it appears from initial glance, but coming from experience, this isn’t something you should get excited about. _Skinwalkers_ are the last thing you want to speak informally about, if at all.”

 

More neutral than Switzerland.

 

“Say something”, he sighs in exasperation.

“ _Anything.”_

 

“I don’t know… how else am I supposed to react to someone telling me I’m basically turning into some imitation lycanthrope? Or other supernatural nonsense.”

 

“It’s _not_ nonsense, and you’re not turning into a werewolf. We call them skinwalkers, and they’re much more human than you think.”

 

“Well, I’m not _thinking_ much of anything except being in dire need of underwear and padding.” She says this while stepping down from the stool, surprised at the fact that she still has the tissue in hand after all this, not even caring for basic decency as she lifts the hem of her slip to clean up what smears of blithe secretion overstayed their welcome.  

 

“When’s the last time you had your cycle?”

 

“Can’t see how it matters when reality thus far has been a bad acid trip.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

A shadow has her looking up to his form now stood before her, hands secured in his pockets as he looks down blankly at her benign exposure.

 

“It seems like you remember who you are but not where you’ve been. Which means your spirit animal underwent transformation at your most vulnerable, trailing a mordant path all the way to ye ol’ Hope County, Montana, of all places.”

 

The tissue was saturated in red and another set of fingers hovered above it.

 

“Let me see it... Believe me, I’m just as desensitized as you are, so don’t worry about grossing me out.”

 

Bewildered, she raises the offending sheet in offering.

 

His lip twitches.

 

“ _No._ Your other hand.”

 

A tainted purple gash was stamped on her right palm. Dibé wouldn’t have thought anything more of it, giving it up for closer inspection, if it weren’t for the intricate etch branching out as detailed lines and making up as extensions to the lines of her anatomy.

 

“It’s a sigil. You’ve been marked.”

 

“...Marked by what?”

 

His expression merely mimicked the neutrality she professed before and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

 

“Elan!”

 

A generic looking guard severed the dwindling thread of suspense as Elan promptly drops her wrist and turns to salute the advancing voice appearing shabby and strained at the kitchen entrance.

 

“Does the Affirmation have sufficient fuel and ammo?”

 

“Yeah…

Why?”

 

“Shit’s hit the fan, man. You know that crew huddled at the police department? They decided to go on with their little plan to arrest Joseph. Got word they flew down to the Compound and ambushed the sermon. Long story short, plan didn’t work out, helicopter got wrecked on takeoff, now we need air support because the Resistance apparently took this as their go-ahead to fight back. Just…. come on! John needs you at the helm.”

 

Everything was happening in a blur. The man had left as soon as he came and Elan was already beginning to depart until Dibé tugs him back by the sleeve of his sweater.

 

They both exchange silent stares in a twisted impression of learned helplessness. There was nothing either of them could do or say and ironically some unspoken message transferred that whatever future notes entailed, wouldn’t guarantee a safe return.

 

A pendulum clock crescendoed in a nearby crevice of space at the increasing awareness of solitude but the one knell that failed to bespeak through retired stint of hearing loss was a subtle flapping of wings.

 

Sighing and returning to lean against the countertop, she wasn’t at all comforted by the company of her new feathered friend, beady eyes having been trained on her in unrelenting suspicion.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

With no protection and cramps still underway, Dibé tucks herself in bed, too edged to question or express high opinion towards the plane print sheets beneath the comforter spread. She didn’t have to carry the bird back as she just followed her dejected form up the stairs and into the room, flying to a cage in a far corner that was previously shadowed from her and aiming to rest upon her custom nest, a pensive look targeted through the balcony barrier.

 

Dibé gives her a lingering gaze before turning to the bedside table, reaching over to switch the lamp off but stopping midway at the sight of a black book suddenly appearing in the center. At first, confusion washed upon her features as she recognized the binding as the journal she had seen on the dresser. Now, it had magically appeared right next to her.

 

Taking it instead and leaving visibility, she thinks it can’t hurt to take a fugitive sneak. There was nothing else to do but wait and maybe she’d get some action from having the man of the hour arrive to see his sheets spoiled by her essence.

 

Just not the kind he’d emphatically desire.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

_Joseph Seed’s hypocrisy was a double-edged sword. Twin blades, whetted upon the tip of cotton tongue, unable to voice claim to blunt relief as those edges slip a further descent down the abscessed throat. That razor sharpness had always been adjusted towards him, honed to painstaking perfection by the ever inspecting eye of his celestial devotion._

 

_Yet, if anyone were to exact this mendacity, they would be met with the pallid conjuring of ire, made fit for the hallowed throne of false idols. A crown of thorns, welded by divine intervention, would be positioned as a permanent stain upon the faultless head, follicles expressing as futile in their attempts to coax the man awry from vainglory._

 

_Nevertheless, the thinning hairs were adamant in their equally shedding nature. Slowly but surely to expose the scalp’s expanse of surfacing contusions. The process is lengthy and arduous, having expressed rapid regularity upon the cult’s instigation. Upon reuniting with the blood bonds of his estranged ruminations. I had been first in this vexsome quest for mending and resumption, a quivering mess in the chilling ambience of a desolate office, made suddenly hospitable by fleshly embodiment of hearth and home._

 

_Our eldest, Jacob, had been the final token retrieved in venture. ‘A rusted medal to match the metal of his militia upbringing’ is how I would describe the state we had found him. A rumpled form furled severely in a darkened corner, muttering unintelligible whispers of anguish._

 

_We were fine and free. Crisp leaves blooming well under Spring’s scrutiny. Despite these brief assurances of relief, in proper spite of His vengeful hand, I haven’t failed to notice as this Fear still aims to linger. To fester within partial restoration of fellowship, paving a reversed course to exultant regression._

 

_Something vile is manifesting in my brother’s lungs. His breaths of convictions are becoming  mulish in rhythm. I fear with dismaying verity that he his emerging into the very beast we absconded on the porch of those rickety shambles of residence, cantankerous gaze reigning a spate of daggers through the back windshield of our guardian angel’s conveyance._

 

_I pray for the day where his morphing features finally settle upon the wholesome image of a boy awed by the heroes in comics, aspiring hope in the ailing bosom of corrupted youth._

 

_Instead, it seems I am cursed only to witness the derisive face of a vehement apparition._

 

_As it happens, Old Man Seed had always been our cunning Devil in disguise._

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Thou shalt not steal applies to thoughts as well.”

 

 _How convenient_ , she thinks while slamming the journal closed.

 

“Maybe knock fir-“

 

“I’m not in the mood.”

 

His hands are staunch on his hips, foot tapping in succession, not really sure how to proceed in his vexation. However, the quick point of his finger at her slowly rising to a sitting position certainly has her stiff and taciturn.

 

“ _Don’t. Move_.”

 

_Well, this is new._

 

Still, she wastes no time flinging the covers and letting his slow prowl dominate the stillness, springs compressing under both their weight as his arms place taut on either side, face uncomfortably close and the slick sheen of sweat coupled with a wild look in his eyes is striking, now that she gets a good look at him in the honey glow.

 

“I see Elan didn’t do a very good job keeping watch over my guest if I come back to you casually bleeding over my sheets with Sybil set loose and agitated.”

 

The journal is no longer pressed between cotton and her gashed palm as he swiftly yanks it from grasp, a foreign sting shooting up her arm, at last, sending communication to her nociceptors.

 

“Idiots… All of them”, he mutters to himself.

“Can’t follow simple commands.”

 

He’s pacing back and forth, leather book firmly held to his chest, murmuring more incoherent ruminations.

 

Her injured palm mimicked the same motion, steady throbbing syncing with her heartbeat. The subsequent bleeding is lost on her as she sprouts up from the bed, circling the semi-frantic man, waiting until he was facing her to grip his forearms and deliver a forceful slap to his perspired cheek, leaving a bloody streak.

 

His head is still veered, arms gradually lowering to his sides, eyes closing and breaths steady as he turns back in her direction. With head lowered, his glare is evident in now narrowed eyes, jaw clenching. It doesn’t take long for him to regain control, baring his neck fully to her, looking to the ceiling in contemplation, inhaling deeply.

 

But, it’s this simple action that proves to be his first (and last) mistake.

 

John has no time to react to the disturbing emittance of muffled snarling, snapping his head back down to witness a brief glimpse of black eyes before being vigorously pushed with unforeseen strength onto the bed, mattress bouncing with impact.

 

“What-“

 

She looks voracious in the blending of grey and golden hues, jumping on him in a flash and cutting his speech with palms slapping hard onto his chest, pushing him down further, nails curling and biting into exposed flesh, deep enough to break skin.

 

He whimpers slightly but gives nothing away. Just watches in awe, allowing her to secure his hips with her clenching thighs, eyes still sable in composition. The image was just like that fateful night. Only this time, her baring teeth were discernibly pointed. Not quite sharp, but not at all blunt as demonstrated before.

 

He lays submissive, arms splayed out, gaze flitting over her features, not once straying because he’d be damned if he wasn’t the least bit startled and he decided it was smart to give in to her sudden advances on his neck, licking a textured stripe up his jugular vein, the palpitating pulse apparently bringing pleasure to the rabid girl’s tastes as she moans softly in delight. This only causes his pulse to spike further; whether in fear or pleasure, he couldn’t determine.

 

At the familiar feel of his crotch tightening, he thinks enough is enough. Unfortunately, the rabid girl has other plans, releasing her hooks from his chest, instead sinking into cheek and beard and anchoring his head from movement, boring her feverish gaze into his for but a moment before surprising him by swiftly capturing his lips with her own, slipping her tongue inside, trying to taste every inch of muscle within reach, and making him gasp. This only spurs her on, leaving no room for recovery as she pulls back to seize his bottom lip for a searing bite, beads of blood already forming and staining tiny streaks down his chin and into his hairs.

 

John hisses in pain, hands flying up in a sudden burst of temper to latch on her hips, flipping them both in one fell swoop. Hands are quick to enclose around her wrists, restraining her deranged form. She’s bucking against him, whining and growling in an unnatural mix. John was fighting to control himself just as much as the unnerving situation, genuinely helpless to this frightening display.

He had no choice but to press his body flush to hers to cease her flailing completely, forehead touching against hers, submitting to the constant lapping at his face, waiting until her energy waned appreciably.

 

A number of ill-defined seconds had passed and the feeling of her limp body beneath only brought marginal relief as it prompted him to relax his furrowed brow. His eyes opened steadily to the sight of an intense pair of brown, remnants of black ebbing into the shrunken pupil. She looks empty, belatedly petrified.

 

With shaking breaths and weakened muscles, his remaining spurts of stamina are spared to give a thorough assessment of her, only slackening his grip lightly, and if it were any other time, he may have appreciated her slattern, softly panting array.

 

Alas, he doesn’t even permit her to voice a word, all vigor having been thoroughly expelled from his lungs as he just collapses entirely, fitting his head into the crook of her neck.

 

They both lie there, spent and speechless, but it only takes a few moments before John swallows hard, clearing his throat considerably before finding the courage to finally speak, voice low and quiet.

 

 

“....Maybe you were right about that exorcism quip.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

John Seed was no stranger to anomaly. One could’ve easily argued that his life had always been coursed towards deviation, with no clear destination or purpose to be sought. Not even when his family was endowed upon him again did he weep with joy from generous reunion. He thought it was little more than just that. An endowment, which signified legal binding, tying him oppressively closer in intimate conviction to the ghosts of his past. 

 

And the stitches were ever tightening. 

Grizzled threads, tentative in maturing from a healthy brown to weathered grey, denouncing the youth he’s tried so desperately to retain. But, try as he might, those fissured hands were resolved in their crepitating burr. Despite the warmth emanating beneath his flaccid form, blenching chills skittered a two-way circuit along his spine. 

 

This was not the pliant recess he was used to. Having a woman boneless in bed as a result of strenuous activity would have been just an average night of indulgence after exhausting charms in the courtroom. 

 

As the cosmos would have it, this was no average woman, and his charms were rendered abortive in this battle for carnal custody. She had invaded the one area of sanctity he could claim commiseration after assuming a new set of unfulfilling duties. 

 

How could he have been so careless? 

If there was an ounce of credulity to allow in this suspended disbelief, he’d have skillfully restored the residue of Wrath repressed from this week’s failures to guide three stubborn mules to atonement. He hated to dwell on his mistakes. Abhorred the condescending embrace from his brother, accompanied by words of surviving discouragement. So long had he spent refusing to question these abnormal acts of sibling affection. “Tough love” was something he’d trained himself to recognize and it pained him to see that what his brother perpetuated was anything but what overbearing parents would advertise in the hopes of concealing their strikes of abuse. He didn’t want to have to prove himself to someone who was supposed to express unstinting solace in the name of kith and kin. 

 

Yet, this was the inverse circadian rhythm of which John was fated to endure. Nearing 33 years of hurdling through endless obstacles and not an emblem of gratitude was bestowed in his name. One title, in particular, reigned supreme in its exclusive demand for honor and each passing day of daily reprimands was beginning to take its toll on his better judgment. There was no doubt in his mind that a pitcher of salt was poured imprudently on his bosom’s septic wound at the untold prophecy that was to manifest as a violent possession. The truth of the matter was that they had never escaped their father’s clutches at the orphanage. And he supposed this was exactly the reason why that burgeoning utterance of affirmation was an insistent beacon at heart. 

 

That patriarchal delusion could never take “no” for an answer.

 

Initially, he was resolute in consulting Joseph about all that’s happened in the past 48 hours, but now he decided, for the sake of his own sanity and well-being, that it was best to take matters into his own hands. Especially so, when The Project had a new barrage of troubles edging on the horizon. 

 

The Deputy would have to take a rain check in expiation. There were more pressing concerns at the fore, and for some undefined trace of interlude, he’s half hoping for a light voice to retrieve him from the depths of sullen musings. The written compilation of his most undisclosed secrets still lay safely intact near the pillows but the steady heaving of a chest melding against his didn’t worry him as much as it should have. A very trivial part of him was not convinced in its desire to muster a wrathful fit of courage to send her scuttling off the porch, naked and afraid, like the animal she was. 

 

But, he was nothing like his father. 

He’d do everything in his power to ensure that his tusks didn’t gnaw away at the last fiber of humanity clinging fervently in juvenile concession. There was still a young, joyous boy beaming behind the wheel. If no one else cared or bothered to see it, the ripe fruit of his likeness would forever persist as a guiding light, from which its seeds would never spoil. 

 

Leaving off on this positive note is just the right incentive to have him disengaging and assessing the rumpled yet graceful mess. She was fast asleep, a peaceful expression, unreasonably innocent and pure, tempering the previous grapple for serenity and almost galling him, if not for the simple fact that if they were placed in any other more familiar context, he would have gladly received it. For now, he simply leaves her, stains of her essence spilling from both ends. Standing at the edge, he looks down at her, raising two fingers to brush at the tease of stains she’s left, letting his tongue clean it in one quick stroke and gliding along the lip, against still fresh teeth marks. 

 

He’s already begun discarding himself from the day’s worries, hands committed to muscle memory and hanging his trench coat on the nearby rack, deftly unbuttoning his vest and shirt, unbuckling the belt beneath, shimmying out of unlaced boots. And all the while, he hasn’t once relinquished his gaze. With only a pair of boxers adorned, he breaks contact, making seasoned stride to bid his fledgling goodnight.

 

“Goodnight, Sybil.”  Her feathers are a comfy reminder, head nuzzling into his cupping grasp as his mouth plants a loving kiss to the top. 

 

Unsurprisingly, the next body of embrace is weightless. Instead of struggling like he’s used to when dealing with the standard lot of transgressors in a dank room of persecution, it’s almost as if she’s starved for his clement touch as he maneuvers her under the covers, having moved seconds before to tuck his journal under the pillow. 

 

This cushion is where his head finds sanctum, slipping under and carefully slotting himself to spoon the sleeping beauty. Tomorrow, he’d have things figured out. The future would take care of itself. 

 

At present, his thoughts are content by the fact that he’s not alone and the absence of light in the now hush atmosphere is an analgesic when he grins subconsciously into her hair, the warm hug of her hands enclosing over his own and back snuggling into his chest has him grateful for a moment of shameless vulnerability.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Get ready. We’re going hunting.”

 

Dibé’s beginning to think she’s overdue for getting a fairly normal awakening, a pair of skinny jeans and Patagonia hoodie being thrust in her face after a bright and sudden shaft of sunlight greeted her groggy, bleared eyes. 

 

The balcony door was wide open, birds chirping in chorus and she’s dazed yet obedient to wobble with clothes in hand to the wardrobe, aided halfway by steadying hands guiding her straight. 

 

“Hunting? Didn’t actually think you did that yourself.”

 

The closet had been opened for her but she wasn’t awake enough to admire the interior design.

 

“You haven’t eaten in what? Two days now? Possibly more.”

 

John was leaning against the doorway, appreciating the view in lieu of her immediate knowledge. Her back had been turned to him as she started undressing. The outfit he’s given being set off to the side, nightslip revealing scarred yet soft skin, grimacing only briefly at the dried blood painting the junction of her thighs. Luckily, he’d remembered to bring that up during his early morning visit at Faith’s, who happened to have a spare pack of pads.

 

“Okay…. that’s a funny code name for grocery shopping, I’ll give you that. And where did you get women’s skinny jeans?”

 

“Not important”, he brushes off.

He’s right in front of her now, pulling a small handkerchief from his jacket’s pocket. It was the same charcoal grey as the hoody, with denim jeans below being a darker shade than his last. Four pockets were stitched in square formation and he’s retrieved the fabric from the top left before crouching before her.

 

...Face just inches away from her womanhood. 

 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before”, he says quietly. Reassuringly. There’s not a hint of teasing in his tone yet Dibé can’t help but feel self-conscious as the fabric sweeps a tender path on the sensitive nerves of her innermost thighs. When that agile hand moves to hover directly beneath her quim, she’s shooting a hand to latch at his wrist but he’s quicker, hand at her hip tightening its grip and curtly stopping her descent, before she could think to close her legs completely.

 

Wasting no time, he finds his marker and glides the cotton as gently as possible from the perineum to the hood, partially saturating the cloth with her heat. 

 

“Relax”, he whispers softly, too focused on bracing his motions to look up to her diluted mortification. 

 

Instead, she tries to focus her efforts on something equally captivating, which happens to be directly forward. Between two shelves of hanging and folded clothing, a number of thinner horizontal shelves lined the middle most section and one in particular served a needed distraction. 

 

An open box of jewelry asserted its regnant in the form of seven rings encased by burgundy velvet. They all looked to be custom crafted, but she needed to get closer inspection to identify the baroque carvings of anatomy adorning the various colored jewels. 

 

Being successfully distrait from the TLC performance, she doesn’t notice John finishing his work, rummaging through a lower cabinet to make crinkling sounds and take an unknown object until he’s waving said object in her line of vision. He doesn’t know her reflexes are nothing short of palpable but apparently the man’s cat-like swipe begged to differ, and her embarrassment quickly morphs to annoyance when she reaches for the wrapped package only for him to snatch back at the last second, thoroughly entertained at her adorable frustration.

 

“We should get that shaved”, is all he says, pointing it towards her mini jungle in indication before laying it to rest on her chosen outfit.

 

“What happened to Elan?” She was nothing if not a master at changing subjects, rather not wanting to mull over the thought of him trimming her whisker biscuit. 

 

She doesn’t fail to observe the morphing of his own features from that of contentment to disfavor, giving her a halfhearted look of warning before turning his attention to the set of rings, walking up and grabbing one, specifically, to fit on his middle finger. 

 

“Don’t concern yourself with him. He’s not one of my elite from some drunken election. He can handle himself.”

 

Dibé already has the hoodie sheathed, just the right brand of oversized, when he turns back to see her waiting expectantly, legs still exposed, jeans and padding still untouched, when he suddenly realizes his mistake.

 

“Ah… right.”  A drawer to his right is approached and opened, unveiling a pair of lacy lingerie (fortunately not as racy as she was expecting) and handing them to her. 

 

“It’ll be uncomfortable, I’m sure, but you’ll just have to make do until we can reach the clinic.”

 

Once again, he’s faster than her, raising a finger to pause whatever inquiries were prepared to spill.

 

“No questions. I’ll explain everything on the way. Also…”

 

Dibé simply holds the underwear in double grasp, appearing as a lost child when he lowers his head to sniff.

 

This time his grimace is on full display, eyes narrowing as he pulls back, uttering his first complaint of the day.

 

“Mm… I’ll have to  _ drown _ that filthy mouth in peroxide at this rate.”

 

She decides it’s fitting not to point out the hypocrisy in his statement given he’s literally stashed away the mucousy material back into his top pocket.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Their drive from the ranch to an unspecified destination was much longer than anticipated. Autumn wind was nipping at her skin through the open passenger window and, fortunately, to her, what greeted around every bend and corner, was more than eventful enough to negate the early monotony. So much breathtaking scenery to take in yet so little time to appreciate as the man behind the wheel was a little too happy to stamp his unyielding boot on the accelerator. They had just passed the entrance leading a winding course to his home, turning onto a left road when the needle was eager to surpass 60, prompting her to settle back into polished leather with the glass instantly rising to close. 

 

Knowing she hasn’t pushed the button, her head turns to a smug, passing smirk, his own window still lowered halfway, looking out through the windshield and leaving her to study him. Aside from their outfits clearly matching, he was wearing a trucker’s hat, which oddly seemed to suit him. She wondered if it was a disguise of some sort, with the curved brim fitted just a bit lower than normal, shading his eyes. The object wrapped around his finger is what breaks her pact of silent questioning. A sapphire gem, coveted by silver limbs contorting around in a loop. Beautiful craftsmanship, and she couldn’t allow the meaning to stray this close from reach.

 

“What does that represent?”

 

As if he had long since read her mind, his eyes are still keen on the road, sparing a fleet glance to the ring in acknowledgement.

 

“One of the Deadly Sins. 

Take a guess.”

 

“Either Lust or Greed.”

 

His grip tenses on the wheel. 

 

“The former... 

I exchange one for each day depending on what sin has almost tempted me into excess the day preceding.”

 

Dibé nearly snorts.

 

“And  _ I’m _ the cause for today’s penitence?”

 

John takes in a deep breath, slowing down just enough for her to witness the approaching scene of uproar manifesting as a number of frantic bodies accompanied by gunshots gradually increasing in blast. It was all so sudden, there was little she could do but surge forward onto the dashboard, staring a panned view in muddled wonder at a church being transformed into a warzone, people taking cover behind tombstones with rifles clutched to their chest, snipers giving away their position in the shrubs with red lasers pointed in the direction of the building’s steeple. A figure she couldn’t discern was hidden in the small area, a green laser pointing back at one sniper and swiftly snuffing that light with a resounding pow. Shouts were getting louder, shots getting more frenzied as the bodies tried drawing closer to infiltrate the entrance but the closer they got, a string of expletives emitted from her chauffeur, tearing her gaze away when they were a little less than midway across the partially blocked road. 

 

“Get down”, he mumbles. 

 

“What?”

 

“Keep your head low. Don’t draw attention.” 

 

She does as she’s told, shielding her head from view all the while swiping the lone cowboy hat on the dash and donning it. Never had she experienced an ensemble of gunshots at this intimate range beyond innumerable depictions of gore on film. She couldn’t have ran blindly into the crossfire even if she wanted as the accelerator was punching yet again, sounds fading into the background, a palm patting her upper back in signal. 

 

“What was that?” She asks indifferently, looking back to flashing lights and minor explosions. 

 

“The beginning of the end.”

 

She looks to his impassive expression, stony glare hardened to the pavement ahead, strangely humbled to know there’s not a trace of jest to his gist.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“How do you pronounce your name?”

 

“...I never told you my-“

 

She stops short and smiles to herself. 

 

“Dee-bay.”

 

“ _ Dee-bay _ . 

Hm.”

 

Why did it have to sound so refined slipping off  _ his _ tongue?

 

“How old are you?”

 

“How old are _ you _ ? And don’t tell me to ‘take a guess’.”

 

He sighs and chuckles.

 

“I’ll be thirty-three in the next month.”

 

_ “ _ Means I’m younger by a decade. Turned twenty-two a few months ago.”

He huffs and turns to give a crooked smile.

 

“Well. At least you’re legal.”

 

“That reminds me. 

The scales of justice model in your home.

You’re a lawyer?”

 

“ _ Was _ . I suppose you could say. I don’t practice in a firm anymore but my duties, here, more or less demand an echo of that criminal justice.”

 

“Seems appropriate. Why represent humanity when you can represent God?”

 

At that, a blanketing silence enveloped. It seemed he didn’t want to, or possibly wasn’t ready to disclose any information regarding and she was happy to not prod. It gave her time to actually survey their surroundings. Aside from the weird billboards with her driver’s face plastered, along with strange posters and an erected YES sign in the distance, imitating the signature Hollywood, she knew something was wrong with this county. And now she could see why he was staunch in keeping his speed above 70. It seemed like there were mini wars breaking out at every intersection, men and women in those odd uniforms either patrolling or sending blazes of ammunition and disturbing the otherwise tranquil ambience. As if the uniforms weren’t enough, there were also matching pickups with the same cross-like insignia and she could’ve sworn every 5 minutes, one of these scruffy looking people were stood leisurely before some random civilian on the shoulders, kneeling helpless before them, wrists tied in captivity. 

 

“Would you… happened to have remembered what occurred last night?”

 

A radio, which she was just now becoming aware of in its gospel tune, was turned down for her to hear his inquiry. Maybe she  _ was  _ losing her hearing. 

 

“Me invading your private thoughts and you barraging in like an enraged parent? Yes. That’s about it... Aside from sleeping.”

 

She was confused at the second burst of silence. He just grunted softly after this admission, focused again on speeding down a new road past a truck stop. Three signs saying “Join us in the Bliss” in rapid succession and then just blurs of vegetation. A few more minutes had passed when an open field with bald people cloaked in a green mist has her raising her eyebrows until they were vanished from view under a bridge bypass. 

 

More deserted cars. 

More explosions. 

More unexplained chaos. 

 

“ _ Where _ are we going?”

 

“Relax. Enjoy the ride”, is his curt riposte.

 

So, she does just that, settling lax into the cushion, watching the pendulum sway of a deer skull necklace dangling from the rearview mirror, flitting her gaze back and forth, from the man’s pensive yet obstinate impression to the ever changing geography, mirroring those hesitant marks of obscurity. 

 

More uneventful moments had passed. More switching dials to choirs singing reverence to religious figures. The “Oh John” one was amusing. 

 

_ Does this guy have his own television show too? _

 

A bridge was approaching. Lakes spanning on either side. They must’ve been on some isle by her estimate. Barbed wire fencing trapped them on each side. Skip to another few minutes and a roadblock panned into appearance. It was the first time on their travels where they finally stopped for more than a number of seconds, John casually pulling up as if it were a toll booth, a man who looked just like one of her sordid captors saddling up to his rolled down window. 

 

Scratch that.

 

The guy was practically _bowing_ before John’s presence. 

 

“Tell Jacob’s men to lower their guard at the Armory. They’ll be expecting visitors.”

 

He doesn’t even wait for the man to salute him, let alone give a response, pushing down on the pedal and giving her minor whiplash. 

 

“While we’re on the subject, I’m just as impatient as you are. Just... sit tight. We’re almost there.”

 

She didn’t like the sudden raring tone of his voice. There was something… off about it. 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mountain upon mountain. Foliage and floral scents. The same odd people, this time with wolves at the hip. She’s not even the least bit enthusiastic about being a tourist anymore when everything is literally passing by in an instant. A few more final twists and turns and they had finally reached their port of call. On the side of the road, he parks and she’s already out before he cuts the engine, letting the brisk late morning air kiss her stiffened muscles into action.

 

_ McKinley Dam  _

_ Water Filtration Plant _

 

A red, rusted sign erected before her. Double linings of equally red flags on street lights giving a jarring entrance with butchered corpses hanging at the topmost section of each pole. 

 

Up ahead were open gates and Dibé was making way to scour the rest of the place until a vise grip on her arms forcibly pulls her back into firm chest, a harsh whisper tickling against icy mantle.

 

“ _ Play along. Don’t say anything until we’re alone.” _

 

This is how her morning ends, being a hostage once again, dragged off towards unfamiliar men in homogenized uniform, armed to the hilt, and stood before vault doors with even stranger wording above. 

 

_ SACRIFICE THE WEAK _

 

_ YOU ARE MEAT _

 

_ Wut… _

 

Not to mention the baying crates they passed, indicating some esurient beast behind its locked confines. Of course, the seemingly fresh blood splatter on the ground near three idle guards is what she notices first as they ascend the short set of steps, John being careful yet ambitious in his pushing her to stand before them. 

 

Everyone is insufferably silent until John groans, barking at the guard closest to the vaulted entrance with a tiny window.

 

“Are you gonna open the damn door, or stand there like an idiot?”

 

His head snaps up and he’s moving with automatic resolve to a glass box. 

 

“ _ Hold on. _ ” Another guy steps in, giving Dibé a sweeping onceover. 

 

“Who is this?”

 

“It’s the Deputy. 

As you can see, she’s been apprehended.”

 

The third and final guy next to him frowns in uncertainty.

 

“....She doesn’t look like the Dep-“

 

A brusque crunch fills the air and the man is stumbling to the ground, right into the blood splatter, writhing and clutching at his bleeding nose as his screams muffle into the ski mask he’s wearing, fingers clawing at the cotton to wrench it off.

 

John simply shakes and flexes his hand, knuckles reddening from rough contact as he looks sternly between two faltering bodies. 

 

“Anyone else have any doubts?”

 

A red button is pushed immediately in response and both remaining guards back off to their respective sides as the resonating sound of the 10-ton mass is forced backwards, revealing a pall of darkness. 

 

“Well, well, little brother. You come into  _ my _ house, injure  _ my _ men,  _ and,  _ to add insult to that injury, you bring one of your latest  _ filles de joie  _ as some sort of consolation prize.”

 

John sighs for what feels like his last will of respiration as a shadowed figure corners around into the light.

 

“You didn’t think I’d leave my  _ heavily  _ armored bunker unattended without knowing what purpose led to your arrival? What would Joseph think?”

 

“Jacob, I’m not here for a quarrel. 

Granted, I didn’t  _ expect _ to see you here….”

 

Dibé was swiftly barricaded behind John’s defensive forearm, thoroughly distrait and amenable to whatever fuckfest of interactions were transpiring thus far. 

 

“But, now that you are…, I guess I need your help.”

 

John winces imperceptibly at the strong smack of the man’s palm against his shoulder. 

 

“Why didn’t you just say so?” 

 

He was well above average in stature, and fairly brawny to match. But, the fear factor of his supposedly menacing presence was entirely lost on her as he approached in a futile display of predator to prey. 

 

The gamy scent of his breath fanning across her face only further weakened the ghost of impact, merely having her revisit that awful encounter two nights prior, fighting the urge to spit in his face and furl up against her smaller yet secure escort. 

 

Instead, she’s stoic in presentation, fingers subconsciously intertwining with John’s, and the subtle feeling of his receptive link only fuels her courage. 

 

 

 

 

“Who  _ is  _ the young pup, hm?”


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

 

Flecks of jade glimmered in his iris, matching the camouflage hue of his army jacket.    
  
_ Like a snake. _ __   
  
And he was reminiscent of a savage beast. The ginger red hair, purple shading encircling his eyes, and jutting ears were as human as can be, that she couldn’t refute, but it was something about the dog tags and rabbit’s foot, the exaggerated story she’s heard of him resorting to cannibalism during those grueling and dour moments in the merciless sands of Middle Eastern deserts. Numerous red badges of courage painting an anemic canvas. And it’s by this astute survey, she could understand how one could be intimidated by his presence. 

 

However, the sentiment was yet, if ever, to be aided in turn. The man was nothing more than what he claimed others to be. 

Just a slab of meat. 

Weak and uncured to her gourmandizing palate. 

 

Much to her chagrin, he was off limits. 

Off the menu of thoroughly satisfied hunger, due to sharing relation with that exceptional meal of anointed interest.    
  


How she had even known about him in the span of seconds after brief eye contact was beyond explanation. 

 

But it was there as a twinging spark in one-sided exchange. A flickering light of transformation in which the vandalized flesh of his body became a tight stretch of stymied textile. 

 

Bunk beds, duffel bags, and a centered table comprised the first room of entry, emulating the interior of a typical barracks. Apparently the architect failed to implement enough light fixtures in time, if the partial pitch was any indication.

 

_ Why have a bunker built in the first place? _

 

John keeps a steady pace between Jacob and Dibé, herself trailing a lagging last place in line as they descended two flights of stairs before reaching said room. Feeling like a pet on a leash, she’s directed to sit in one of the folding chairs at the table, still heeding to John’s behest to stay mute until they were alone.

 

“Take those silly hats off and we can talk.” 

 

Leaning back against steel beam of bunk bedding, the soldier stares daggers into Dibé’s covered forehead. In an act of reflexive civility, the cowboy hat was removed and set on the surface along with John’s trucker hat being flung neatly near. Flimsy lingerie was giving her mini wedgies with every fidgeting motion, and she was sure the oversized army brat was immersed in some rather raunchy thoughts with a sadistic grin and hooded eyes kindling the cause of her squirming. 

 

“One bolt-action hunting rifle. 

That’s all I’ve come for.”

 

John blocks the intense energy radiating off his form, sitting against the edge of the table and putting his back and disheveled hair on full display. The only thought beginning to plague her mind was how his older brother would melt upon her tongue. Would his roast be the flavor of game or a more prime yield grade? These aberrant yet solicitous musings made her salivate and cede to settle into the metal, observing the conversation from disembodied perspective. 

 

“Well now, I’ll just assume you intended to use one of my Chosen as bait considering the damage you’ve dealt.”

 

“If I told you I was planning to forswear continuing on the path to Eden’s Gate, would you support me?”

 

“As hackneyed as it is, your real issue is our priggish brother. But, I know you’re not being serious with this suggestion, so just cut the pretense and tell me what you’re really here for.”

 

“That information is confidential at present. You never question me when I bring any other abductee. You’re just making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

 

Jacob utters a croaking laugh.

 

“You want to take control of the situation, yet you haven’t even confirmed if she’s in fit enough shape to go out with your hounding escapade.”

 

“I  _ just _ want to test something. It won’t be a full-fledged hunting expedition.”

 

“Why not just you, then? It’s been two days and you decide to harbor some fugitive girl without informing us? If she was any other  _ abductee _ , they’d either be flayed at the chest for orientation or disposed of in a heartbeat, as we speak. You’re lucky I’m not a tightass like Joseph but for your own sake, hiding some random conquest you’ve gotten cozy with right under his nose is not going to sit well.”

 

“She’s not some random conquest.”

 

John looks over his shoulder at her, blinking once, and expelling a breath before looking at his brother again.

 

“...It’s complicated.”

 

Exhausted with charades, Jacob folds his arms, a look of stern parenting steeled in his eyes. 

 

“John… 

Who is she?”

 

“ _ That _ would be the million dollar question. But, it’s not “who”, but “what” that’s the winning determiner.”

 

Brassy clapping sounds immediately echoed throughout the small space, a slow, mocking rhythm, gaining severity for a few grating seconds before canceling out at an adjacent door. A clear, bold voice quickly replacing.

 

“Indeed, it is.”

 

About as tall as Jacob, a man dressed exactly in the guards’ uniform wanders into the room, the same barn red ski mask clutched in one nude, tan hand.

 

Dibé abjures her oath of speech abstinence when she recognizes the familiar face. 

 

“Elan...”

 

The army brat was once again in her line of vision as John switched positions to stand at the opposite end of the table. The stringent look he has in response to this recognition is unreadable, but it was leaning more towards displeased, if anything.

 

Nevertheless, he’s making way to stand firm a few feet before the young man, asserting some macho dominance and halting him from making any further movements. 

 

“As if  _ one _ wasn’t enough, I now have  _ two  _ insubordinates to amend.”

 

Elan responds with a snide, breathy chuckle, jutting his chin out in derisive defiance.

 

“No disrespect sir… but I’m also under John’s command, and last I checked, fraternizing should be the driving force of inspiration. Aren’t we  _ all _ supposed to be brothers and sisters in Christ?”

 

Jacob is left to seethe at this minor slight as the younger man pushes lightly into his shoulder upon passing, leaving an inoffensive yet valiant imprint. 

 

“Let’s  _ pretend _ that I’ve sliced the tension and get down to business.”

 

Dibé flinches subtly at the force of a blade plunging its tip into the plastic surface, a pair of taut hands spread out on either side in a show of interrogation. 

 

“Our new friend here has meddled into affairs beyond comprehension. She’s like that hallowed lamb Jo-.  _ The Father  _ keeps prophesying.”

 

Shooting his arm forward, she lets him wrench her wrist up, fingers blooming out to sport the healed gash.

 

“I have lesions sketching the Yellow Brick Road to my prostate, but you haven’t commented on any symbolism there.”

 

The army brat says this before circling behind her, cornering around John’s attentive form, continuing on behind Elan before assuming position at the empty end of space at the table. Now she really felt interrogated with the three men surrounding, her just sitting docile like a student in the principal’s office. Her hand was dropped in a perfunctory manner and Elan leans back, already beginning to tire of the conversation. 

If it could be called that. 

 

“Seeing as Halloween is next month, I can understand if you think this is some prank. But,  _ you’ve _ seen it.”

 

An insistent glance is cast to John, who she now notices it’s her he’s focused his attention on. 

 

“Condensing it to layman’s terms, she’s turning into something. Not a werewolf or vampire per se, but there’s a witch in the mix. And she’s been… cursed, in a way. Now, don’t ask me how I know all of this. The main thing you need to know… the only advice you have to take heed…. is getting her as far away as possible from any populated area. Luckily, it’s convenient you brought her here. If you’re going hunting, you’ll also want to consider setting up camp in a dense enough location to pacify the effects and help her acclimate.”

 

Hush descended over the quartet, disbelief impregnating the air, until John does a sharp intake, shuffling off in the door’s direction, leaving three musketeers behind.

 

Elan and Jacob engage in a heated staredown. Dibé is restless in the seams of her stifled alias. At this point, she was just eager to see what would happen next. The unpredictable factor was like ripe viscera to a vulture and the arcane, unfocused gaze she projected went unnoticed by the two oblivious opponents. 

 

John returns, armed to the tee with a loaded duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a rifle slung over the other. In seconds, he’s stood behind Dibé, warm hands settling on her shoulders, massaging gently, luring her from oblivion.

 

“I’m glad we could have this chat, but our lovely guest and I have a wilderness experience to endure.”

 

Massaging motions morph into light taps and Dibé scrambles to stand, ignoring the puzzled looks exchanged, already ahead of her escort, disappearing through a wall of shadow.

 

Jacob’s voice stops John’s keen steps to follow.

 

“Your secret’s safe with me, Johnny. You don’t have to prove anything to me or Joseph. Just… take care of yourself.”

 

John tenses a bit at the firm grasp on his shoulder, fingers squeezing and urging him to turn around. He’s greeted by considerate features, relaxing the muscles and prompting him to return a small smile of his own when those large hands raise to cup his head, bringing their foreheads to meet in a transient gesture of brotherly fondness. Another quick exchange of saccharine farewells were shared before awkward clearing of throats defused this fairly rare emotional performance.

 

Fortunately, Elan feels embarrassed enough for them both as he slips his mask back on, sneaking past them both to exit. 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John wasn’t sure whether to be resistant or receptive to the growing feeling of zeal spreading warmth through his chest, kindling sparks in every nerve ending, his wayward thoughts drifting to the knowledge that he’ll be completely and utterly independent henceforth. 

 

Of course, this enthusiasm was not too liberal in furnishing. Resplendent light bathing him was marginal in its efforts of renewal. He had never been particularly susceptive towards his joint Chosen recruit. Perhaps it was the fact that sharing wasn’t favored in his book. Perhaps it was Elan’s deriding outlook on The Project. He had been a delinquent kid, among others, made disciplined by Jacob’s rigorous management, but naturally his boyish resolve was stubborn, only electing to manipulate the motions rather than fully adopting the cult’s customs. 

 

In any case, the contempt John reserved for him seemed to serve its purpose in confirming his decision to have Lust wrap itself around his little finger. He didn’t know why or what drew him towards Dibé like a moth to a flame but his covetous reach was made enhanced by the sight of the masked nuisance making his mark on her still biddable commitment. The guard who was gifted with a broken nose was long gone from the blood splatter, now occupied instead by the apple of his eye and his, admittedly, skilled pilot, conversing under the afternoon sun. Or rather it was him offering a slew of words while the girl in question was merely an avid listener, his mask unsheathed again in an undoubted, if not vainly gracious, exhibition of amity.

 

Nevertheless, he’s quick to intervene, stepping between and facing the young man in the manner of a protective father. John figured his brother’s regulation wasn’t without commendation as he was compliant to step off to the side, giving them ample space. 

 

“John, I just wanted to-“

 

“That’s  _ Inquisitor _ to you.”

 

He expected for the boy to visibly roll his eyes but not for him to actually comply with his request. 

 

“ _ Inquisitor….” _

 

Rubbing salt in the wound, he bows in curt mockery.  

 

“I just wanted to prepare you and your new sweetheart for the journey ahead. Don’t mean to pry too much but as your brother said, you should be extra careful. You don’t know exactly what you’re getting yourself into. I’d ask to join and offer help but obviously I’m aware you’re too obstinate to accept it. And I understand. Fortunately, it seems she’s in the infant stages of sea change so hopefully you’re not too much at risk of fatality.”

 

Elan sighs and laughs in absurdity.

 

“But, yet again, I digress. You and pain are like two peas in a pod… so I’m sure you’ll be fine. If anything, I just wish I could be there to witness what animal she ends up maturing into. I only get these instances of lore from my grandmother’s old stories so it’s nice to actually see the unthinkable  firsthand. You should keep that in mind and consider the notion of having to _see_ to believe.”

 

“Just promise me you’ll look after Sybil.”

 

John’s eye twitches in irritation at the boy’s sly smile of reply. 

 

“Sir, if nothing else, that bird is a bonding beacon for us both. If it gives me an excuse to spend more time with that ethereal creature than you can bet your fortune I’ll defend her with my life.”

 

Oh now he was just sugarcoating it, John thinks with an irked look as the boy begins backing away with a wink, wagging his brows once at Dibé before jogging off with mask sheathed to a duo of waiting Judges at the open gates. 

  
  
  


 

 

* * *

  
  


 

_ Red _ . 

Everything was red. 

This vibrant color, rich with symbolic meaning, enveloped her senses, pads of John’s fervid fingertips pressing comforting tendrils of red hot heat into the back of her neck as they passed the gates, leading a fiery trail of apprehension to the ruby red muscle car. 

 

Doors were unlocked but her hold is hesitant on the handle, watching intently as John loads the heavy luggage into the trunk, shutting it with a loud thump and meeting her innocent gaze as he wipes his hands on his jeans. She was genuinely surprised when he simply gives her a sheepish smile, hesitating a bit in whether or not he wanted to corner around to meet her halfway.

 

Instead, he nods and moves to occupy the driver’s seat, her following in perfectly synced movement as the clinking sound of their doors were paralleled. Per usual, the air was plagued by silence.

 

“You forgot your hat”, is her first remark, in compliance to their previous agreement.

 

“So did you.” The engine drowns out his following words but there was something uttered about clothes and clinic. Oddly toothsome traces of exhaust filtered through the ventilation and she inhales with brazen ecstasy, much to John’s enjoyment. Again, they were en route to unstated terminus. However long they’d been at that bunker apparently wasn’t an indicator to festive mayhem’s cessation. 

 

Miles away, Dibé was front row to a flock of helicopters and planes in arrow formation, strafing what she could only guess as innocent civilians near what appeared as a tourist attraction called F.A.N.G Center. Judging by the numerous cages present, it looked to be a zoo, or something of similar nature. She just prayed the animals were evacuated in time, if any were present. John was driving at a relatively normal speed now, which gave her a fair amount of time to take in the surroundings. 

 

It was still breathtaking. Just not in the peaceful, delicate way she was anticipating. Planes assumed avian function, zipping across clear blue skies and perhaps that would have been predicted, if not for the plumes of smoke rising in various regions of the land, said planes zooming in turbulent direction to deliver parades of ammunition to the ground. Why were they attacking defenseless people and what could be the reason behind such illicit acts? Was terrorism at the fore with the man in intimate proximity being a prime inciter?

 

She was aware that now wasn’t the best time to question, and given the negligible yet telling info spared that fated night of dazed meandering, she figured these aerial incendiaries weren’t entirely at fault and a number of these citizens were armed themselves. The thought was no less perturbing but she’d likely have been questioned herself considering the notion excited more than concerned her. 

 

She knew they had changed regions by the switch in topography. Mountains gave way to desert-like scaping and shrubbery. She’d be lying if she said her knowledge of flora and fauna was imbued by confidence. This was the first time she was encompassed by nature with direct contact. “Home” was in the heart of harvest and herbage but unfortunately, the urban workings shadowed what little could be seen beyond the countryside and given her upbringing, the four walls of her household were as a prison from which the outside world was either accompanied by surveillance or not at all. The latter naturally left her isolated by the hawkeye of overprotective guardians. 

 

Maybe the cosmos had a vendetta against her. Maybe a cruel joke was being administered, but she could’ve sworn upon passing under a Truss bridge, the same variant of green mist cloaked figure, adorned in tattered rags was swaying on the edge. Rolling down the window to stick her head out for a closer look, she could hear mumbling. She hadn’t realized how far out she was leaning until the back of her hoodie was grabbed in a fistful, forcing her back into the car before she could see the full presentation of the person falling off the ledge….

 

A fading splash set the minacious tone.

 

“Already trying to dig an early grave, dearest?”

John’s laugh is mirthless, a nervous undertone settling foundation. 

 

_...Did he not see? _

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Why flirt with death when you can flirt with me?”

 

Dibé knows he’s trying to make the awkwardness less glaring but their casual exploration through an eerily empty health clinic just makes her wonder if he’s taken her here to be dissected. To pick apart her organs entrail by painstaking entrail to seize whatever beast was taking refuge. Instead, he’s rummaging through a number of cabinets in the main operating room. 

A makeshift substitute that is…

 

A few hiking rucksacks were lying around and he’s using them to stuff with hygienic products. 

 

“I know we’re still on stranger terms, but you’re acting weird. I can sense it. You also haven’t informed me about this “wilderness experience”.”

 

She’s hopping onto the medical bed, lying supine with hand behind her head. 

 

“I’ll tell you. But first.”

 

A toothbrush and paste is dangling upside down in her vision and she has to fight the urge to roll her eyes when she settles to the ground again, snatching the toiletries from grasp.

 

A few beats pass as they stare each other down in their prominent height difference. 

 

“...Okay, Daddy.”

 

She fucked up…

She  _ knows _ she’s fucked up.

 

His eyes darken with wicked euphoria as he closes the distance separating, ghosting the back of fingers along the hairs of her forearms and raising goosebumps. 

 

“Now the works of the flesh are evident: 

sexual immorality…”

 

The same hand rises to cup her cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb in a swiping motion.

 

“Impurity…”

 

Finally, it hovers and stills before her bottom lip, tugging it down gently.

 

“ _ Sensuality…. _ ”

 

It dips just a tease into her opening mouth, his head lifting, lips parting in an “ah, ah” motion and she’s just about ready to bite down on the tip, tongue capturing a hint of meaty taste before he disengages completely, backing off a little to lean against the bed, palm steadying support while the other rests on his hip and damn if he didn’t look like the most self-satisfied bastard.

 

Dibé swallows and gives a wry smile before taking off to the restroom in the back, freshening up unironically for the man of the evening. When she returns, the sight she’s greeted with has her simpering. Both backpacks were equipped, but it was the configuration that had her swell with a strange mite of endearment. It was slung in the front, looking as if he was carrying a child like a kangaroo carrier.

 

A goofy looking smile was plastered on his handsome face and every fibre of her being was a tingling pins and needles of swelling attachment.

  
  


She couldn’t help it.

  
  


He was  _ absolutely _ adorable. 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

 _Pilgrimage_ is the word that sketches an omen to grueling trek. Her appetite was beginning to be well beyond famished of sustenance, and given the wilderness implication, she was expecting more forest and isolation from civilization. Not what was expected to be an hour long hike, minimum, spelling miles of labored breathing, sore thighs and possibly dehydration, within the flourishing womb of collapse, on the path of what was, more or less, a public attraction.

 

Speaking of, her _partner_ was nothing short of immaculate. But, she was positive that would change much sooner than either of them would initially estimate. His pale complexion had subtle hints of tan undertone but not enough to negate the effects of mottling stroking a broad brush of pink, from the skin of his neck to the tips of his exposed fingers. Rosy streaks making for an attractive contrast, however, doing little to assure her of his protection against even the lessened severity of September sun. She couldn’t help but take a lingering moment to admire his lean form. The other brother was attractive, sure, but she wasn’t one for shallow scrutiny. There was just something about John that whispered an ideal balance of yin and yang. In an even more cliché sense, a balance between morality and iniquity. Something she could wholly identify with.

 

Not that she’d reduce the taller brother to a superficial crisp of one dimension. It was safe to say that John checked all of her non-explicit boxes, from the slender yet reasonably muscular physique, to the boyish yet manly face, a conscious adherence to personal hygiene coupled yet with appreciable unconcern to getting a fair bit dirty, under more demanding circumstance. In any case, his fashion sense was sensibly impeccable. And lastly, she wasn’t too keen on having that enchanting voice fade from memory. Gravel on silk, rather than silk on gravel, is what the maudlin girls would say on a sybaritic Saturday night.

 

His eyes were a potent shade of absorbing aqua blue, a number of untold and emotive stories hidden within the briny depths. Laugh lines edged along the divide of hairs signifying a seamless yet harmonic transition between boyhood and manhood. A well-groomed beard that was definitely going to endure a good scraggly composition without proper oil and workings in a sterile environment. Although she wouldn’t be surprised at all if she were to find him crouched near a lake, his reflection crystal clear under the full moon, barber blade in hand, assuming the form of a more discernibly active Narcissus.

 

Which leads her to revisit the curious marking across his chest.

 

“I don’t mean to ferret but I couldn’t help but notice, when you had your chest exposed like a Chippendales callboy..., there was a scar?”

 

They were walking side-by-side, and she would’ve thought Aubrey’s Diner was his choice for a first date and overdue grubbing, but the place looked to be ousted months in advanced as wooden panelling shielded the windows.

 

“A souvenir, you could say.”

 

“You must be pretty obsessed with sin.”

 

“Oh, _dear_. You have no idea.”

His lip curls in a wicked grin when he tilts his head towards her.

 

They were cornering around to one side when she spots a guy, dumpster diving in broad daylight, near the barricaded building. Just _one_ quirky sight on her perpetual list of anomalies. As assumed, he was muttering under his breath (no doubt about a number of solutions and discoveries that will never see the light of day by grandiose heroes in lab coats with only an expired ticket of proficiency to their name). The only words she could make out in his ramblings were melodic fragments concerning backbones, neck bones and thigh bones…

 

John asks her to wait to the side while he goes to interact with the guy who’s dressed like your average dropout stoner, probably concealing some mental acuity in spite, even in the throes of sobriety.

 

It was a funny thing to behold with them both exchanging vials as if it were nothing but an obvious drug deal, expressions as serious as confidential records being entrusted. About eight corked test tubes in total were slipped in perfect pairs in each of the four pockets of John’s jacket. She supposed the punchline was his casual stride back, the same smirk and dark look given in a gesture of distraction.

 

Dibé quirks one side of her mouth down to convey that her lips are sealed and she’s minding her own business. She tries waving back to the adrenalized guy, but is turned away and urged in the car’s direction, insistent grip not at all subtle in John’s possessive intent.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

More red. Prints of it, dispersing as bread crumbs along the dirt. Sheets of ivory petal, embedded into weathered soil. Barefaced shine of solar radiance beating down graciously upon the land, sparing either wayward traveler from falling victim to ultraviolet choler.

 

She’s nowhere near naive to think the following corpses and blood stains are fake. Even more mysterious is one corpse in particular which is half nude and hunched over in a sitting position, swathed in white cloth from the waist up with its head plugged at the top by antlers. Two posts on either side with the same omnipresent logo awaited at the end of a bridge. John is patient to watch her scribble etchings of a plaque starting off at the first Roman numeral, making transcripts of them in the handy dandy notebook that was stashed in the duffel bag. She was nothing if not a self-proclaimed nerd.

 

_I. The Call_

 

 

_Joseph Seed hears the Voice. It calls on him to become a leader to give hope to wayward souls._

 

“I figure we’re the wayward souls.”

 

The pad and pen were stored away in her kangaroo pocket when they pushed on.

 

“My brother… has a unique relationship with God.”

 

“So those people in the uniforms, and that strange logo that keeps reappearing… that’s all _his_ doing? You’re all a part of some cult?”

 

“The Project at Eden’s Gate. Or, The Project, for short. We _prefer_ to classify as a certified religious organization. Our teachings have considerable weight yet we _are_ in opposition towards those who think the will of The Father bears no truth. They are the ones who question often, with doubt festering, that may or may not become our _quote, unquote_ ‘angels’.”

 

“And what do these ‘angels’ look like?”

 

There it is again.

That same obnoxious simper.

 

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Here. Take this. It’s a homeopathic. We have qualified chemists who deal in the same subject matter as the guy we encountered, so I can promise you nothing but safe consumption. In the sense, that you won’t face any casualty.”

 

“Gee, I feel safe already. Does it have a name?”

 

“Ultimate Survivor...

…Hey, hey! A _small_ dose.”

 

John stops Dibé in time for her not to down the entire tube in one gulp, wagging the corked remains in her face in reproach.

 

“This _is_ a markedly potent solution, so a tiny sip should be just enough. ... _Greedy little sinner._ ”

 

He mutters the last quip under his breath, turning on his heel and approaching the next set of poles and hunched corpse, a second plaque coming into view.

 

“Why _can’t_ I be greedy?”

 

Maybe he wasn’t lying about the drug’s effectiveness. She could practically feel each molecule breaking down to an even more succinct set of building blocks, scorching an icy trail down her throat lining before settling as vapored weight in a vat of stomach acid. Then again, he _had_ just succussed the liquid like an incensed bartender before administering.

 

“You can be greedy all you like, dearest. Save for another time… However, emphasis on _survival,_ meaning we get accustomed to rations. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

 

“Seems like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me. You never really pegged me as the survivalist type. Unlike your brother.”

 

“Jacob has been retired from his little boot camp for a number of years now. The draconian bearing he presents is all an act.”

 

Dibé slips out the notepad again, scribbling down a second plaque of inscription.

 

_II. The Cleansing_

 

_Joseph Seed affirms his obedience to the Voice by cleansing himself with his own two hands, becoming born again._

 

“You didn’t really think this one through, did you?”

 

“I didn’t. But that’s the point of this adventure. A test of survival and instinct to... _extract_ whatever is manifesting under your skin. Which is why I brought you here. Candidly speaking, I’ve only walked this path once. It’s extensively long and unforgiving. I may have used a stray ATV here and there but now I’m aiming to forgo resource and brave the elements without a helping hand.”

 

Dibé literally proceeds to stop in her tracks.

 

“What does that make me, if not a helping hand? I guess you aren’t candid enough to blatantly admit that you’re using me.”

 

“You’re right.” Saying it as if it’s the most obvious declaration. “I _am_ using you. But, it certainly doesn’t stop any one of us from lying to ourselves, _convincing_ our better judgment that we’re not abusing the power of manipulation. We all are capable of exploiting and, whether or not we’re aware, we do it to every person we encounter without having an inkling to the damage we’re inflicting.”

 

Not once did he stop to turn around during this exclamation, arms crossed at the wrists behind his back and walking at a leisurely pace like a sage lecturing his apprentice.

 

Any doubts she had about this ‘Ultimate Survivor’ potion were flushed down the drain. If the wolverine suddenly appearing out of thin air and gnawing away at her arm was proof enough, the effects were pretty damn miraculous considering she’s just flung it off like a gnat with no claw or teeth marks left as memento.

 

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for John, who apparently hadn’t drugged himself and was presently wrangling with the same deviled weasel in a patch of muddy tracks.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Ha ha.”

 

It was a toneless, aping utterance as he brushes off what little mud he could, two identical scratch marks on either cheek, hair mussed with strands falling over his forehead, looking every bit of the bedraggled mess she was expecting, glaring down at her beaming face with an endearing sneer.

 

“I was hoping maybe we could make it far enough into the deeper parts of dense forest before you’re looking vagrant.”

 

With sheepish hands, she’s standing on tiptoe, trying to reach to smooth out his hair and is only borderline flustered when he bends down just enough, his face in direct vicinity.

 

But, he’s genuinely sobered and not aiming to flirt as she reaches down to start patting each of his pockets.

 

“Third to the left. There’s a healing agent.”

 

“Oh, I wasn’t searching. Just thought it was a good time to cop a feel.”

 

John narrows his eyes and blinks, rising to his full height before huffing through his nose.

 

“You’re an odd one…

Although, I’d say that’s nothing short of a compliment given it’s just one of a handful of traits that’s had me drawn to you.”

 

“Hm, let me guess. Another has to be me being more quiet and submissive than you’re normally used to.”

 

“That, coupled with the fact that you’re unpredictable. Ties in quite nicely to our trial quest considering we’ve made it to our first corporeal destination.”

 

Immediately after he’s said this, the environment morphs right before her eyes. There was no longer a trail but two cabins. It was hard to suspend disbelief when she wasn’t exactly sure of what she was seeing as in the next moment, something new shimmers into existence. That same green mist manifests into a human figure before the nearest cabin door.

 

...A young woman, possibly around the same age as her, barefoot and wearing a floral dress, twirling around once before acknowledging their presence.

 

“Tsk tsk. Joseph won’t be too happy when he finds out your behavior is not in accordance. And with an anonymous visitor, no less.”

 

Her voice was cloying and airy; almost illusive. As if she were little more than a mirage or phantasm in that already imitating desert landscape.

 

“Well, fortunately, there won’t be a _when_ because you’re keeping that obnoxious little mouth sealed.”

 

“Spouting secrecy so close to The Father’s likeness?”

 

Dibé looks off in the direction she’s gesturing. A large statue is erected on a hill, not too far away from where they’re standing.

 

“Rachel… _Please_.”

 

A warm yet malevolent smile crosses the chimera’s face.

 

“Whatever you’re doing with her must be serious if you’re saying please…

Alright.

I swear I won’t rat you out.”

 

She rolls her eyes and sighs, as if the entire charade wasn’t as entertaining as she wanted.

 

“Always remember, the Bliss will-“

 

“Set you free. Yes, yes. If you don’t mind vanishing off to fairyland now.” He sulks, waving her off.

 

“You’re becoming more of an old man than Jacob. And to think, you were supposed to be the fun one.”

 

She pouts and folds her arms but John doesn’t have a chance to respond before she’s literally taking heed and vanishing into the wrinkles of fantasy.

 

Dibé was far too enraptured by the spectacle to voice any suspicion and whilst committing what she’s just witnessed to memory, she mimics the unearthly girl’s movement, twirling around to survey their new surroundings when she spots another plaque, excited to transcribe again.

 

“ _Another_ sibling, I presume?”

 

“Adopted.”

 

Her excitement instead declines to vexation when she’s frowning at the fact that it’s the same plaque from the beginning, albeit in a different arrangement.

 

“About that…

I was expecting the scenery to change but not for my pesky sister to make an appearance. This happens to mark the true genesis of the Path so I’m afraid to say our venture thus far has just been the tip of the iceberg.”

 

Dibé turns and is relieved that John looks just as disgruntled as she’s beginning to feel under the weary evening sun.

 

“On the bright side, it seems we found shelter just in time for the day to retire.”

 

He spreads an arm out to the now rather inviting twin shacks.

 

“After you, _lady of the night_.”

 

_Great. Now I’ll have to resort to auto cannibalism at this point. As if getting indirectly involved with a cult wasn’t risible enough._

 

 

 

Strikethrough what she’s said before.

John Seed was the perfect blend of heavenly good looks and knavish charm.


End file.
